Little Bird
by WolverineKILLS
Summary: Sansa ends up leaving Kings Landing with the Hound after all. Angst, adventure and inappropriate feelings ensue.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Characters belong to George RR Martin. This only serves me as a writing exercise; feedback is more than welcome!

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"Little bird." His voice was raw and harsh as steel on stone. He rose from the bed. Sansa sat and listened to his retreating footsteps. Her hands trembled; _she _trembled.

"W-wait." She hadn't meant to say anything at all. The sound of her voice garnered the Hound's attention. His footsteps stopped, his thick shadow looming heavily in front of the door. She could hear his ragged breathing, drunken and raspy, and watched with wide eyes as he slowly turned back to face her.

"It speaks." Something between a laugh and a snort passed his lips, both sounds equally as ugly and thick with derision.

Sansa stood up from the bed, reaching to the spot on her neck where he had pressed the point of his dagger. Not even a droplet of blood was shed. He'd only meant to frighten her; that's all he'd ever meant to do with her. "I would leave this place. Go north." A tear trickled down her cheek as she said it. _It wasn't supposed to be this way!_ Her Florian was supposed to rescue her, not some drunken dog. But her Florian was not the knight from the songs whom she'd always dreamed of. Nay, it was Ser Dontos, the fool knight who was naught more than a drunk himself. Two drunkards, that was all she had left in this world in way of allies. Her eyes met the Hound's, but she looked away again just as quickly.

He shuffled a step closer to her. His body swayed drunkenly, entirely without grace. "We leave now then," he rasped, the stench of sour wine and vomit coming off his breath. "Get a few things, little bird, and I'll take you home."

The Hound's stallion was a black warhorse, more wild than its owner and just as fierce. It snorted as Sansa neared it, and she trembled back a step. That made the Hound laugh, a short derisive sound that suggested nothing close to compassion. "Aye, he's a wild thing, that. But he won't hurt you while I'm here." He roughly flung what belongings she'd brought with her – a small bag stashed with some dresses and furs, a brush for her hair, and a small bottle of perfumed oil – across Stranger's back and strapped it tight. Then just as roughly he reached for her, gripping her sides with his giant hands and hoisting her up onto the horse's back. Stranger whinnied angrily. "Ho!" barked Sandor at the horse, and then climbed up behind her.

When he took the reins his arms went around her, securing her tight against his body, the steel plate of his armour hard against her back. She shuddered at his closeness, at what she was doing. The stallion snorted to a start when the Hound kicked its sides, and a moment later they were out in the night, the sky still streaked with an unnatural green that sent shivers up and down Sansa's spine.

Before leaving the Hound had covered her rich furs with a worn brown travelling cloak, something a servant would don on a cold night, not a highborn lady. This night was anything but cold. With the bay on fire and the sky lit up in flame, it felt hotter than it should, and Sansa squirmed uncomfortably in the saddle. "Keep still," the Hound grunted behind her, "and keep that pretty little face of yours down." She could smell the sour wine on him as though he had bathed in it.

The first guard they encountered called out to them as they approached and the Hound took his head as swiftly and unhesitatingly as a maiden might pluck a wildflower. Sansa gasped and covered her mouth, seeing all but a glimpse of the savagery, but enough to make her stomach churn. She began to regret this decision. If she begged him leave now, would he allow it? Somehow she didn't think he would, and she was too frightened to ask.

Sandor Clegane had been right in one thing; not a soul in King's Landing, save for the slain guard, had made any attempt to stop them on their way out of the burning city. Before long they were past the gates and galloping across open country, the green of the night slowly fading into darkness until finally the black and empty landscape was all that surrounded them. The only sound was Stranger's hooves crashing against the ground and the Hound's ragged breath behind her. A long time went by, and neither one of them spoke a word.

Eventually the black warhorse's pace slowed from a trot to a walk, and soon thereafter the first sign of daybreak cut through the dark sky. They had been riding all night, Sansa realised, suddenly feeling the blow of exhaustion take the place of her dwindling adrenaline. Her thighs chaffed from their night of riding, and her back was sore from repeatedly bumping up against the Hound's heavy armour. Still, she had not the courage to speak, so she remained silent, bound in his armoured arms and inhaling the sour stench that clung to them.

At last they came to a small clearing. The Hound spoke first. "We'll stop and rest here." The sound of his voice, less drunk than it had been when she found him in her chambers, broke through the cold still air like a whip. He dismounted in silence and then reached up to help her from the saddle.

"Thank you, ser," she said when her feet found the ground as his hands fell away from her sides.

He grunted. "I'm no ser, especially not out here. Better get used to that, little bird." And then without another word, he led Stranger to the quiet riverbed she hadn't noticed was there until that moment. She sat on a nearby log and watched their silhouettes, the Hound's hulking body as still as the morning, waiting patiently while his horse drank. _Why did he come for me?_ she found herself wondering, not for the first time that night. _And why did I let him take me? _Ser Dontos was her Florian, her shining knight, the one who was supposed to rescue her. _All he ever did was offer empty promises._ A craven and a drunk, the fool knight, he was. It was the Hound who'd rode in and saved her. A drunk all the same, aye, but no craven.

After the horse was watered and tied, Sandor joined her in the little clearing, sitting himself heavy on the ground with a grunt before leaning back on his elbows. She stared down at her feet, feeling his cold eyes on her, wondering again why it was that he had taken her. Perhaps he had been too drunk to grasp what he was doing and would soon come to regret it. What then? Would he leave her here? Rape her? Or worse, cut her throat and leave her body behind for the wolves? "You're shaking, little bird."

Startled, Sansa looked up in time to see him shuffling towards her. For a moment she recoiled, but then quickly realised that he only wished to give her his cloak. A course of shame went through her as he draped the heavy garment across her shoulders. She hoped he hadn't noticed her flinch.

He had. "You needn't worry, little bird." His voice was not kind and it chilled her to the bone, more than any wind ever could. "I won't hurt you." With his cloak wrapped snug around her, he settled onto the ground again, this time laying on his back and resting his large hands upon his stomach.

Sansa sat there on her log for some time, her eyes feeling heavy and the will to stay awake quickly fleeing her. After a while the Hound's breathing changed to a soft snore. The sky was becoming lighter, enough so that Sansa could see her breath mingling with the misty air. She could hear her father's solemn voice echoing in her head, _Winter is coming,_ and her eyes filled with tears without warning. _It wasn't supposed to be this way,_ she thought again, the unfairness of it all coming down on her like an icy rain. The Hound grunted softly in his sleep and his head turned to the side so that only his scars showed. A sob caught in her throat at the sight of him, though she could not say if it was his ugliness that repulsed her so, or her own shame at even thinking about it. Her deep fear of the man was only rivalled by the equally deep pity she felt for him.

As the night turned to day, sleep still would not come to her. Sansa's uncertainty grew. When the Hound woke he would be sober and would come to understand that stealing her away had been a grave a mistake. She shuddered to think what he would do then.

Sandor Clegane continued to sleep when she stood up from the log. His huge white cloak hung past her ankles and grazed the earth underneath her feet. It smelled of him, wine and vomit and blood, and only served to remind her of the dog he was. She let the cloak fall to the ground and stepped out of it, careful not to make a sound. With a glance at Stranger, she realised she should have taken her chance earlier. The horse, like its owner, was now settled upon the earth and sound asleep. _I could wake him, and then we can ride off to safety._ Stranger frightened her though, so she did not move.

"Clever girl." The sound of the Hound's raspy voice startled her. He had been watching her. _But how?_ There was an ugly smirk on his equally ugly face, and his mouth twitched against his scars.

"I… I was only…" Only what? She did not know. But it did not matter. The Hound had stood up, his large frame seeming to tower over her, and Sansa felt like the stupid child he took her for.

"Stranger doesn't like anyone but me touching him," Sandor said. "If you'd gone near him, he would've kicked and bit and gods know what else." He laughed, an awful sound that rang joylessly through the silence. Without another word, he walked to the trees to make water. Sansa turned away in disgust, though her own bladder suddenly felt the pressing need to empty itself. The Hound turned back to her. "We'll break our fast and then make for Riverrun."

"Ser?"

He grimaced, but did not correct her. "To your mother." He went to Stranger and rustled through a satchel, pulling out a heel of bread. Sansa watched as his filthy fingers tore through the bread and then tossed half her way. She caught it clumsily, feeling a wash of sadness cascade through her. It was true, he was no true knight; no true knight would fling food her way or make water in front of her. And a true knight was not supposed to be so ugly and hateful. "Better hurry up and eat," he grunted at her. "Traitors are not wont to linger."

"Traitors?" The word sent a ripple of fear through her. She had to suppose they _were_ traitors and surely by now their absence would be noted.

The Hound laughed. "Are you frightened, _my lady?" _He was mocking her, wearing a derisive smile that did not reach his eyes. His teeth tore through the bread like a hungry dog's.

Sansa turned away and nibbled her bread in silence while he readied Stranger. "I would wash up first," she said when he barked at her that it was time to leave. She still had to make water, and she could feel the dirt of the night past clinging to her skin.

"Then be quick of it," was all he said.

She went a few trees deep and turned around to see if she was hidden enough from the Hound's view before squatting behind a tree and relieving her bladder into the earth. When she stood up again she felt even dirtier than before, and her knees cramped from squatting so awkwardly. She went to the river to wash herself. The water was cool and clear, and bubbled like ice against her fingers. She gasped when it hit her face and then sighed as she felt the dirt drip away with it. What she wouldn't give for a bath, for her mother, for someone to brush her hair. Instead she had Sandor Clegane now, a wounded dog, angry and mistrustful, scared to let a person get too near. True that she rode with him, but that did not make them close. She knew better than to hope they would ever share a laugh, or that the cold anger would ever leave his eyes.

A shadow suddenly appeared behind her, its reflection just as ugly as the real thing. Sansa turned to find the Hound standing over her, his mouth twitching and set in an angry frown. "Time to fly, little bird." He did not wait for her to finish, and grabbed her and pull her along after him. When his hands grasped her sides to lift her back into the saddle, they were not gentle and they squeezed her too tight. He'd meant to be rough, she knew. He'd meant to frighten her. The Hound climbed up silently onto the stallion behind her, and then they were off.

The rolling countryside was the same everywhere she looked, the river to her left, grassy plains to her right, and Sandor Clegane's armoured arms at her sides. Preferring silence to talk, he was a terrible riding companion. Boredom soon washed over her, and that quickly brought back the burn of exhaustion. A few times her eyes drooped and she could feel herself nodding off, but at the last moment she would startle herself awake again and remember herself. She did not know how much longer she could fight the urge to sleep. Soon her eyelids closed, and she could not find the strength to open them again.

When she woke, her head was back against the Hound's breastplate, lolling gently from side to side. If he minded, he'd made no indication of it. Sansa immediately sat up straight and looked about. "Feel better now, little bird?" Somehow his tone sounded more gentle to her, but she could not be certain. She felt his arms loosen around her slightly. _He held me tight while I slept,_ she realised._ He kept me safe like he promised._

The sun was high in the sky now; she had been asleep for some time. "I do. Thank you, ser." She spoke the courtesy without thinking, and immediately regretted calling him _ser._

"Listen," he said, and his voice was a low grumble that tickled close to her ear, "we have to think of a story so people will not know us true."

Sansa almost laughed at that, but stopped herself at the last moment, knowing better. The Hound was well known in the Seven Kingdoms; for anyone not to know of him they would have to be living beneath a rock. There was no mistaking his ugly scars, nor his prominent size. Even his warhorse was known amongst knights across the realm. She stayed quiet.

"You will be my daughter. We hail from White Harbour but were in Rosby for a wedding." It was a weak lie at its best, but Sansa did not argue with it. Should anyone be so brave as to question the Hound's story, she shuddered to think what might befall them. "What would you be called?"

Sansa almost said Jonquil in spite of herself. "Lyanna," she said instead. After her father's sister.

"Too obvious," Sandor grunted behind her. "I will call you Jeyne."

Like her dearest friend, Sansa thought. The memory of Jeyne Poole, just like everyone else she had once loved, was almost too much and she forced herself to think of something else. "And what shall I call you?"

The Hound snorted with disgust. "Father." He did not say anything else after that and they rode in silence for the rest of the afternoon, only stopping once to water Stranger and let him rest, and to nibble on a hard brick of cheese Sandor had brandished from a worn leather satchel. They came upon a village after the sky had long since turned to black and stopped. "We will find shelter here for the night," he said, dismounting and then helping her out of the saddle as well. "The inn's bound to have a bed free. Not many travellers on the roads these days."

Only once Stranger was secure in the stables for the night did they find the inn, a rundown thing with faded wood and a broken sign. The Frightened Pony it was called. _A stupid name for an inn, _Sansa thought sullenly, following as the Hound shouldered open the door and led them inside.

He'd been wrong. The inn had its share of travellers, and did not lack for armed men. Northmen or Lannister men, she could not say, but Sansa gasped softly when she saw them. The Hound grabbed her arm roughly and pulled her inside, tightening the hood of his cloak as he did so, urging her to do the same. His armour was plain and bore no sigil. For that she was grateful; he could be but another soldier, thirsty for a drink. She prayed they would not find trouble during the night.

They took a table in the corner, farthest away from the burning hearth and away from the soldiers. "Drunkards," Sandor grunted, glancing at them in disgust. He ordered a flagon of wine for their table when the serving wench approached. "And bring two cups. Girl's thirsty too."

"Aye," said the wench. "And anything to eat? We've got mutton stew tonight."

"Two bowls." The wench stowed away to do as she was bid. Sansa went to remove her ragged travelling cloak but the Hound quickly grabbed her fingers to stop her. "Keep that on," he growled.

"But, ser, it's so hot—"

His eyes glistened with a cold anger. "My daughter forgets herself, pretty little bird that she is." He lowered his voice and glared at her. "No common girl would ever wear what you've got on under that cloak."

The wench brought them their wine and stew and Sandor poured them each a cup. He downed his before she even took a sip of her own, and then went to help himself to another. The hardened look on his face seemed to soften when the wine had touched his lips, but the anger did not leave his eyes. He ate and he drank in silence. Sansa did the same, keeping her head bowed and her gaze upon her bowl. "We would have a room as well," the Hound told the serving wench when she came to take away their empty bowls. "And fill my flagon with wine." He reached into his cloak and pulled out a silver stag and tapped it on the hard table top before flicking it at the wench.

Their room was a tiny thing, with just one bed, one sitting chair, one table and one candle. It was a room meant for one. Sandor bolted the door behind them and then turned to face her, bringing the flagon up to his lips and drinking thirstily. "More wine, little bird?" he asked when he caught her staring. The candlelight flickered and made his scars seem deeper than usual, uglier. His thin hair was tousled and travel-blown and the hole that had once been his ear showed, a small dark cavern of charred flesh. Sansa shivered.

"Thank you, but no."

The Hound snorted with laughter. "A little bird never forgets her courtesies, does she?" He took another heavy swallow of wine and grunted happily as it went down to his belly.

"I would sleep now, ser."

"Father." His eyes flashed angrily.

"F-Father."

"That's good," Sandor said. "A little bird repeats what it is taught."

Sansa turned away in disgust, but there was nowhere to escape. His large body blocked the door, and he'd already barred them inside. "I have a name." She did not wish for him to see her cry, but her sadness reached her voice all the same.

"Aye. Jeyne. Best forget that other one, _little bird._"

That only made more tears well up in her eyes. Sansa unclasped the brown travelling cloak that covered her and threw it to the floor. From behind her, she could hear the Hound move further into the room. The bed gave a creak as he sat down onto it. "Straw," he said softly. "But better than hard earth."

Sansa only stood there with her back to him, trying to will away the loneliness that she felt so intensely. The more she cried, the crueller the Hound would be, of that she had no doubt. He fed on weakness, thrived on it. She forced herself to stand up straighter and turn around. Sandor sat slouched on the bed, flagon in hand, already watching her. He was seated so that the burned side of his face showed. The scars looked wet and red and painful. But they were naught but scars. "You ever remove a man's armour, little bird?"

"Remove a man's armour?" She had to stop herself from calling him _ser._

"Peep, peep, goes the pretty bird." The Hound chortled and stood up facing her. "A lady does not answer a man's question with a question."

As if he would know anything about being a lady! He didn't even know what it was to be a knight. Sansa glared at him. "I am no lady." Her voice shook and she felt tears burning in her eyes. "My name is Jeyne."

That made Sandor's mouth twitch into something close to a smile. _Close, but still only just that, close._ "The pretty little bird learns." He stepped around the bed and came over to her. His eyes were burning angrily and she shuddered at their coldness. "You will help me then, Jeyne. Like a good daughter would."

He told her what to do and she did it, helping him unclasp this and that until he was able to break down the armour on his own. Underneath he wore woollen padding, and beneath that he had on his linen smallclothes. Sansa looked away as he stripped himself down, blushing furiously and feeling more than uncomfortable. "You shouldn't be so bare," she said in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Bugger that." Sandor helped himself to another swallow of wine. "You would sleep in all those furs of yours?" In most cases she would not, but she had no intention of stripping down to her smallclothes in front of his watchful gaze. She didn't even want to take off her furs to sleep only in her gown. _I will use whatever I have to wedge between myself and you, ser._

The bed was big, but not nearly big enough for her to want to crawl into it beside him. It creaked and sagged under his weight as he lay back comfortably, watching her, his burns facing her. His neck was also plagued with scars, some from burns, others the more distinct cuts from a blade. He noticed her staring. "You're not afraid to look at me anymore, little bird."

"Why should I be? It's only skin." Her answer surprised even her. The Hound laughed, and it almost sounded genuine.

"Aye," he agreed softly. "It's only skin." His eyes flickered away from her face and he brought the flagon up to his lips once again, effectively draining what wine remained. A long low grunt escaped him as he settled back onto the bed. "Will the little bird sleep perched upright all night?" He laughed at that, and then closed his eyes, not waiting or caring enough to hear her answer.

Sansa waited until his breathing changed, deep and slow, before crawling into the bed next to him. She watched his face for a few moments, just the side with his scars, and wondered what he would look like without the horrible burns and the thin ragged hair. _He might have been handsome,_ she felt. _Mayhaps. _But handsome he was not. He was an ugly thing, the sort of dog that no one loves and who's only good for kicking. She tried to hate him, but instead pity welled up inside of her. In sleep he looked almost harmless, almost kind.

_But that's just in sleep,_ Sansa thought to herself as she snuffed out the candle, feeling exhaustion take over. _Only in sleep…_


	2. Chapter 2

The days were similar, each one stretching into the next, long with travel and even longer silences. It was slow going. Stranger grew tired beneath them and did not favour to gallop. Travelling during wartime was a dangerous thing, the Hound was quick to point out. "We're staying clear of the Kingsroad from now on," he had said when they departed after spending the night at the inn. "It's hard ground for us now, little bird. Good thing you brought all them pretty furs." He laughed, despite not sounding the least bit amused. "Realm's turning to piss."

It had been two days since they'd last seen another person, and three since they'd last passed a village. The Hound had taken to riding them through the sparser parts of the country, places where not even the birds seemed to chirp. "The crows are all out feasting on the dead," he said after she'd commented on it, "and the sparrows are too busy whispering their secrets."

And there were wolves. At night their long lonely howls filled the silences. "It sounds as though they're getting closer," Sansa said once. The thought frightened her.

The Hound grunted in agreement. His sword was placed across his lap while he cleaned its blade. He cleaned it every night, even on the days when it never even left its scabbard. "That they are, little bird. That they are."

The howling of wolves in the distance made Sansa miss Lady desperately. Her direwolf had been a much better companion than the Hound would ever be. _Hopefully I will be rid of him sooner than later,_ she thought, watching how he handled his sword, tenderly, as though it were a woman and not a murderous blade. When he felt her gaze on him, he glanced up at her. Sansa did not look away. She no longer felt afraid to look at him, so she did so often. She wanted her stares to make him as uncomfortable as he'd once made her feel. "The little bird looks too much," he grumbled, turning the charred half of his face away from her.

They made camp one night when the winds blistered sharp across the land and the rain pelted down on them like little daggers of ice. _Winter is coming,_ Sansa heard her father's voice, a faint echo in her memory. The Hound had wanted to go on, leaning his heavy body into hers as he sought to shield them from the screeching winds and falling rains. But it did no good. Stranger had let his displeasure be known, whinnying furiously when Sandor kicked his side, urging him to continue. "Bloody beast," he grumbled, his words close to her ear and his breath hot and stinking. He found them shelter within the ruins of an old barn, a hollow shell of a structure with only two walls and a failing roof.

"Do you have any idea where we are?" Sansa asked once Stranger had been settled down. She was sitting in the corner of the barn, huddled on the earth and shivering beneath her damp furs. Sometimes the days were still too warm for the furs and she felt foolish wearing them, but at night she was glad to have brought them. This night she was especially grateful for them, when she knew building a fire would be impossible.

"Somewhere between Duskendale and Harrenhal." Sandor came and took a seat next to her. _To my left,_ she thought. _He always sits to the left of me now. _"Gods," he groaned softly, "I could kill for some wine." His wineskin had been empty for days, and his mood grew increasingly dark as a result.

"Have we only come so far?" she asked. A shudder of disappointment went through her at the news. She would have thought that by now they'd be well north of Harrenhal. It seemed as though they had been travelling for ages already. She longed to see her mother again.

"Yes, little bird," he sneered, "we've only come _so far._ We've had to travel well east of the Kingsroad." He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, his mouth twisted and angry. _Always so angry. _"That's the price of your precious safety. I expect you wish to meet your lady mother again with your maidenhood still intact? That's what I thought. The Kingsroad is crawling with slugs and hungry rapists who'd love to have a pretty thing like you come along."

Sansa blushed and turned away from him. That only served to make him laugh, and as always it was thick with mockery and derision.

"That's right, you're a woman now," he rasped. "Hmm, that I'd almost forgotten. You've gone and had your first blood. Poor girl. Without me, you'd likely already have a bastard in that pretty belly of yours." Sansa didn't say anything. The Hound grumbled under his breath and leaned his head back against the wall behind them, letting out a disgruntled sigh. "A knight's bastard, if you were lucky. But more than like it'd be a flea's. Ah, but then a flea would probably gut you when he was done, if he didn't decide to share you first."

Sansa pulled her knees up under her chin and let him take his cruel pleasure at her expense. _When his steel is sheathed his tongue is his sword._

"Or maybe you'd prefer a _dog's_ bastard," he chuckled, turning to look at her. His dirty fingers suddenly grazed her cheek. The contact made her whole body flinch and she smacked his hand away from her face.

"Don't touch me!" Sansa shouted, standing up quickly. Tears she hadn't even felt coming rolled down her cheeks. How badly she wanted someone, _anyone,_ at that moment who wasn't Sandor Clegane. She had been so good up until that moment in tolerating his cutting jibes and ceaseless vulgarity, but her frustrations and anger were now at the brink. "Why did you come for me?" she demanded of him. "Why did you take me with you? If you hate me so much, if I am such a burden…" She turned her back to him, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing her tears. She wanted to run, but there was no place for her to go. Beyond the barn was rain and wind and a frigid night ruled by wolves.

The Hound stayed quiet behind her. A long time passed before he spoke. "It's getting late, little bird," he said, sounding almost sorry. _Almost. _"The night won't wait for sleep and we've got a long day of riding tomorrow."

Sansa was exhausted, but she would not forgive him his harsh discourtesy so easily. Without a word she crossed the dark ruin of the barn and curled up in the opposite corner, where there was no wall and no ceiling to protect her from the elements. The Hound's looming figure blended into the shadows, hiding him from her sight, making her feel almost like she was alone. Beneath the rain and winds, Sansa closed her eyes and shivered and asked the gods to send her the sweetest of dreams.

But falling asleep was not so easy as that. The winds whistled through her furs and the rain fell relentlessly upon her, soaking her through. Loneliness filled her up, an aching hollow that throbbed with a dull incessancy. The feeling would not subside, no matter how desperately she willed it away. There was an emptiness in her now, a hole where her father had once been. She missed her mother and her brothers. She even missed Arya, and Jon Snow, her bastard half brother. Arya would never tolerate the Hound's cruel japes, Sansa knew, and she wished she possessed but a notch of her little sister's fight. Then she would put Sandor in his place, and would maybe even be able to survive on her own.

When Sansa thought of her father watching her from some unreachable heaven, tears welled in her eyes. It pained her to imagine what he might think of her now, out here alone with one of the most savage men in the realm. _What have I done? _she lamented silently. Leaving King's Landing had been a mistake, but leaving with the Hound had been a reckless and impulsive mistake. What of her family? When the Hound had rescued her from the castle, it looked as though Stannis would win the battle. If that was so, then perhaps Sansa would be on her way right now with an escort to be reunited with her mother and brothers. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, wishing to go back in time, all the way back, before King's Landing and Joffrey and Queen Cersei. Before the Hound. All the way back to Winterfell…

At some point sleep did manage to overtake her, for the next thing she knew she was showered in the early light of morning. The Hound's heavy cloak covered her now, a monstrous thing that brought warmth and security and a raw earthen stench with it.

Sansa was glad for the cloak, but did not wish to face Sandor. She remained quiet, as still as a sleeping bird. When her eyes silently scanned the barn, she did not see him. Perhaps he was out catching something for breakfast or making water or learning where exactly they were. _Or maybe he's left me here._ A feeling of panic surged through her. Sansa immediately shot up, his warm cloak falling to the earth. Relief swept through her just as quickly when she saw Stranger behind her quietly snuffling at the dirt.

Stretching, she slipped past the hollow shell of the barn and went to make water. Her eyes met the grey damp of the world before her while she squatted, hidden from view. Sandor was nowhere in sight. The ground was a soggy mess of mud and puddles and the sky was so dull and bleak that it made her yearn for the summer sun. _"Winter is coming,"_ she whispered in unison with the solemn echo of her father's voice. Soon snow would dominate the landscape and all this green and grey would turn to white, white as far as the eye could see.

Sansa shivered and stood upright again just as a cold burst of autumn wind whistled past her. The barn groaned in response, a miserable and forlorn sound that mirrored her own sullen emptiness. She thought of her mother and her brothers, closing her eyes and trying to imagine their voices. For a moment it seemed so real; she even thought she could _hear_ the laughter of Robb and Jon, only their voices had deepened into the laughs of men. Sansa's eyes snapped open. This laughter was _too_ real. She looked off to her right and saw two men approaching in the distance. They were armed and partially armoured; one was sitting atop a horse. She quickly ducked behind some shrubs next to the barn. Stranger whickered softly. She looked towards the dark warhorse and whispered his name, but he ignored her. "Stranger," she said again, a little louder.

The horse snuffed at her. His eyes were as dark as his sleek coat, penetrating balls of black fire that warned her against approach. "_Stranger_," she said firmly, trying to ignore the quiver in her voice. The horse watched her closely, angrily stomping his heavy hooves against the dirt when she tried to take a cautious step towards him. He snuffed a warning at her, the cold air blowing white smoke from his black nostrils. "Stranger, _please_." Not even Sansa could say what it was she wanted from the horse; she only knew that she did not wish to be alone.

She took another step towards the horse, who replied with an angry whinny and a threatening stomp. She slunk back into the shrubs. Tears filled her eyes. Where was the Hound? She yearned for the comforting feel of his heavy armour at her back, of his strong arms tight around her as he held the reins of his impossible horse. His raspy voice echoed inside her head: _The Kingsroad is crawling with slugs and hungry rapists who'd love to have a pretty thing like you come along._ Sansa shivered, the possible truth of his cold words leaving goose prickles on her skin.

There was a sudden shout followed by the unmistakable sound of swords unsheathing. The quick clanging of steel against steel rang across the silence. Sansa peeked over the shrubs just in time to see Sandor strike quickly at one of the men. He gave a painful grunt as the Hound's longsword cut deep into his face. Stranger whinnied and reared.

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut tight and curled up under the shrub as the sounds of swords continued to clash. She felt a sickness crawl into her belly, taking over the dull ache of hunger. How badly she longed for her mother, or Septa Mordane. Measter Luwin. All of them, _any_ of them. The clanging of steel continued for a few more breathless moments until Sansa heard a man cry out in agony. And then silence. That was the worst sound of all. Frozen in fear, she did not dare move.

"Little bird?" The Hound's voice was more ragged and weighted than usual. He called for her again, louder this time. Sansa stood up from behind the shrub. The Hound's angry face showed a moment of relief when he saw her, but the look did not last long. Blood streaked his armour and dripped slowly from his sword. "It's time to leave," he rasped.

Sansa rode out on the horse the Hound decided to take from the slain men. She did not feel too kindly stealing from the dead, but did so anyway. Riding on her own was better than sharing a mount with the Hound. The horse was gentle and unassuming, with the tiniest flecks of white sprinkled across its beautiful grey coat. Sansa loved her almost immediately. It felt good holding the reins and knowing that she was in control of where the horse went, her path no longer reliant on the Hound.

Yet she continued to let him lead her. Stranger had left the barn at a gallop and Sansa followed on her grey mare, who quickly showed that she was faster than Sandor's raucous warhorse. Mud splashed up around them as they rode, but neither horse showed signs of stumbling against the sloppy terrain. The morning had brought with it an autumn chill, but the coolness only served to invigorate Sansa. For the first time since her father died she felt free. She almost even allowed herself to smile.

They slowed up when Sandor led them into the woods. "We'll be safer riding in the shallow of the trees," he told her. Sansa did not complain, nor did her horse. They had ridden hard all morning and both were glad for the relief an easier pace would bring.

It was midday when they finally stopped. Stranger was growing tired of the long days with little rest. Sansa felt sorry for the horse, until she went to feed him an old rotting apple and he'd tried to bite her hand instead. Not even Sandor took much pleasure in that. "I warned you, little bird. He's a dangerous beast. Best to keep away." Stranger snorted in agreement.

The two horses grazed quietly under the open sky. Sansa stood within the trees and watched her new mare. The Hound followed her eyes. "She's a good horse," he said.

She glanced at him, having forgotten about his earlier indecent jape. "She rides like the wind," she said, remembering her brother Robb's direwolf, Grey Wind. "Maybe even faster." _Fast enough to ride away from you, should I ever need to._

The Hound's mouth went tight and twitched as he momentarily chewed his lip, thinking. "Horse needs a name." His eyes, unblinking, studied her face carefully. They looked very grey and bright in this light. The same colour as her horse.

"Silver," Sansa whispered then, without giving it a second thought.

The Hound's mouth twitched as he looked away. "Have some bread and water, little bird. Later I'll try and kill us something for a stew."

They rode for another few hours under the shelter of the trees, neither one saying a word. Silver followed Stranger contentedly. Sansa pet her soft coat affectionately, glad to finally have a companion who wasn't angry all the time.

The sky steadily grew darker. When they had found a decent sized clearing within the trees, they tied and watered the horses. The Hound told Sansa to collect some deadwood for a fire while he skinned a fat squirrel he had snared earlier in the afternoon. "Isn't much, but it'll give us a stew with some body to it." His knees cracked as he sat down tiredly on a large flat rock. "Don't wander off too far, little bird. There's wolves in these woods." He chuckled, but it was a weary laugh, forced and unamused.

Sansa was quite glad for the opportunity to rid herself of him, if only for a small while. The leaves formed a near solid canopy above her, blocking out much of the grey light of the late afternoon sky. They shuddered when the wind blew, a haunting whisper that seemed to speak her name as she passed beneath them. There was deadwood aplenty to be found, but she did not go to collecting it right away. Instead she wandered, ignoring the Hound's advice. A part of her wished she could lose herself amongst the trees. _He would probably sniff me out and kill me if I ran._ Killing didn't seem to bother him. If anything it was _not _killing that gave him bother. The thought made her feel sick, yet strangely comforted too.

Only as the sky began to turn dark did she gather the wood and make her way back to the Hound. His eyes were closed when she reached him, so she dropped the wood as quietly as she could to the forest floor. "There's a good little bird," he said in a tired voice. "She does what's asked of her."

The Hound built the fire but then handed her his book of matches so she could light it. "I've had enough of flames," he grunted in way of explanation.

Getting the fire to catch took a few attempts. She could feel the Hound's watchful gaze upon her while she struggled with it, but he held his tongue and made no jape. When the flame finally caught and a small fire danced lightly before her, she turned to him in satisfaction, smiling in spite of herself. He did not return her smile.

They made a stew with bits of squirrel and onion and turnip in it, sitting in silence while it cooked slowly over the flames. They supped on it in silence. Sansa was growing used to the Hound's angry reticence. When they finished eating, he complained some more about having no wine. His mood was as sour as his breath.

"Who were those men earlier?" Sansa asked him, for the sake of conversation.

"Cravens," he grunted.

"But hailing from which house?" Throughout the day she had been wondering if perhaps they'd been northern men, separated from her brother's army and trying to find their way back. They might have been her one chance to lose the Hound…

He was watching her closely and seemed to know just what she was thinking. His mouth went tight with anger. "They were no friends of yours, little bird."

"So you killed them."

"I did."

Sansa thought about that for a moment. "Why do you like killing so much?"

"Why must the little bird ask so many questions?" His eyes fell and he looked down at his hands.

Sansa stared at the flame, remembering days of past, of better times than this. She thought about the tourney of the Hand and the first time she had ever set eyes on Ser Loras, the Knight of Flowers, the most beautiful man she had ever seen. A true knight. She glanced at the Hound from the corner of her eye. _Yet _this_ is the one who rescued me._ There was a time when all Sansa would dream about was knights and dames and gallant rescues, but those dreams had vanished as quickly as a sharp breeze. _The dreams of a foolish girl._ Reality was much harsher. Knights were not the beautiful heroes of songs who loved the ladies they saved. Her eyes fell to the Hound's angry, taut mouth and she tried to imagine kissing him. An uneasy shudder went through her at the thought of it. She stared back into the flames.

It seemed like another life ago when Sandor had escorted her back to the Red Keep, drunk on his winnings from the Hand's tourney. Sansa tried to imagine him as a little boy, screaming as his face was forced into the burning coals. But for all the good it did her she could not picture him as anything more than the man he was, angry and cold and ugly.

The Hound spoke then, and his rough voice startled her as it broke through the silence. "There is nothing as sweet as killing. Not drinking, not even fucking. Ah, but you wouldn't know about that last one, would you, little bird? All you know is your stories and your songs, of pretty flowers and the summer sun." His eyes were suddenly on her face, harsh, angry and knowing. "I was watching you the day of your father's tourney, little bird. Did you know that? A face as nice as yours is a hard thing to ignore." He smiled, and not kindly. "When my brother shoved his lance through that stupid boy's neck, I saw how you couldn't tear those pretty eyes of yours away. Your little friend went wild with fright, but you, you sat there _mesmerised_. The lifeblood of a boy trickled out onto the earth and all you could do was stare." He laughed softly and his mouth twitched. "So why ask me why it is I like to kill, when you already know all about the sweetness of death?"

His words stung worse than one of Septa Mordane's slaps. Sansa looked at him in horror. "That boy's death was a terrible thing."

"Aye, that it was," the Hound agreed, the light from the fire dancing inside his cold grey eyes, "but it was still sweet to watch."

His presence across from her was suddenly like a disgusting stain. Sansa felt cold when their eyes met. She wished she were rid of him, that she had never left King's Landing.

He smiled mockingly. "There's wolves in these woods, little bird."

"Yes, you've said that already. And I can hear them howling just as well as you."

"Have you ever kept a watch before?" He laughed out loud at himself. "No, of course you haven't. A lady is above such things, she is better than that. But out here, you are no lady, are you? Just as I am no knight. So what would you rather, little bird, first watch or second?"

Sansa looked into the fire and thought of her bastard brother Jon, keeping watch at the Wall, freezing cold and dressed in black. A bastard, but a better man than the Hound could ever hope to be. She looked up at his tired, angry face and found herself pitying him. "I will keep the first watch."

"Don't forget to tend the fire. The nights grow cold."

She watched as he spread his large white cloak across the cold forest floor. He lay back on it, looking almost comfortable. "What do I do if something should find us?"

The Hound smiled at that. "Wake me if there's time. If not, then you'll need this." He unclasped his scabbard from his belt and offered her the hilt of his dagger.

Sansa took it and stared at the scabbard's leather stitching. The dagger was heavy and large in her hand. Holding it made her feel lonelier than she ever knew. She belonged in a feather bed inside a warm castle. There should be guards at her door and a fire burning in the hearth. She looked to the Hound. "I've never used a sword before."

He laughed. "That's no sword, little bird." With that he laid his head back on the ground and closed his eyes. "Wake me when you would." He said no more. The watch was hers.

Blackness fell upon them quickly thereafter, and things of the night woke with it. There were strange croaks and groans from every direction, and when the wind rustled the leaves of the trees the whole forest seemed to shudder in response. Sansa felt a chill right down to her bone. Her head jerked towards every sound, but she saw nothing except darkness. A wolf howled somewhere, and another one answered. She wondered what the howls meant. _Do they know we're here?_ She hoped not.

Every noise frightened her. She fed the fire some more deadwood so that it burned bright and hot. Sandor slept, snoring softly. His face would almost look kind if not for his terrible scars, Sansa thought. Another wolf howled, and it seemed terribly near. It frightened her. As quietly as she could, she shuffled closer to the Hound. He mumbled something when she nestled in next to him, but he did not wake.

It was incredibly boring to sit there in silence and darkness. Every gust of wind was like a dead man's whisper. She pulled her furs tight around her and looked down at the Hound, wondering if he was cold or uncomfortable in his armour. If he was, he gave no indication of it. All of his complaints were for a lack of wine. She felt sorry for him. _Such an angry man, and ugly in both character and appearance._ To pass the time, she tried to imagine him as a different person, someone happy and without those terrible scars. It did no good to imagine; she was no longer the little girl who dreamed of songs and pretty things.

Sansa stayed awake for as long as she was able. The wolves continued to howl in the distance, but that's where they seemed content to remain. _For now. _She fed the fire one last time and then went back to the Hound and gently shook him awake. He sat up, immediately alert. "Did I miss anything?" he rasped.

"No, just... Oh."

He wore the slightest hint of a smile to let her know the question had been naught more than a jape. "Go to sleep, little bird. Dream your dreams. I'll be here. I'll keep you safe."

Sansa laid back on his cloak and let her eyes fall shut, exhausted. She could feel the Hound beside her. _Of course he's no true knight,_ she thought to herself, sleep taking over, _he never wanted to be one._ Sansa hoped she would not dream her sweet dreams when she fell asleep. Dreams were like songs, neither one real. The only thing real to her now was sitting next to her, keeping her safe. Her knight in shining armour, she realised, was no knight at all, and his armour did not shine.


	3. Chapter 3

The Hound stopped and pointed across the wide rolling valleys. "Maidenpool lies five leagues that way, little bird." Sansa's eyes followed his, even though the town was much too far to glimpse. "I'll be damned if _we're_ going anywhere near it. Can you smell that? Dead men's blood."

She _could_ smell it. A day earlier they passed by a deserted village that had recently been plundered and burned. Since then the lingering smell of death had invaded her nostrils. It was a stench like nothing else. "Is it northmen or the Lannister's doing the burning?" she asked.

"Most like both." The Hound's mouth twitched. It always twitched when he talked. Sansa had once found it almost as unbecoming as the ghastly scars on his face, but neither frightened her any longer. It was his _eyes _that she found to be the most terrible part about him. Eyes always so full of burning anger. Being away from Joffrey had done nothing to diminish the Hound's temper; he seemed just as angry now as he was in King's Landing.

He glared off into the distance. "Lannister's, northmen, it matters not. We can't chance meeting either one."

_No, _you_ can't chance it,_ Sansa secretly thought. If she were only certain that it was her brother's men out there, she would find some way to seek them out. _I would flee during the night. He wouldn't know I was gone until morning. _Her stomach suddenly churned. Every time she imagined leaving him, her insides clenched tight with guilt until she thought of something else. _He's brought me this far unharmed. If he meant to hurt me, surely he would have done so by now…_

The Hound dismounted Stranger and gave the horse an affectionate little pat, who in turn gave a rare whicker of content. "I don't like that sky," he said, stretching out his back and looking west.

Sansa slid gracefully out of her saddle. "Perhaps this storm will pass us by," she said.

"Could be," he said with a frown, "but it's more like to piss all over us, same as all the rest. We need a roof over our heads. A proper meal, too. And wine. _Gods_, I'd bloody skin a man for some wine."

They soon straddled their mounts again and set forth once more. The Hound absently chewed at a mint leaf, keeping a constant and careful eye on the black blanket of clouds creeping their way. The closer the clouds came, the more angry he seemed to become. Sansa rode in silence behind him.

The winds picked up gradually, slowly at first, and then with more force until they were swirling as cold as summer snow against her cheeks. Sansa pulled her cloak tight and shivered. The rains started shortly after that, big gelid drops that sunk into her furs and chilled her to the bone.

Stranger's mood seemed to grow just as dark as the Hound's. Suddenly the black warhorse halted and then reared like a wild thing. "Bloody hell," the Hound swore. His thin matted hair was clinging to his skin and his scars glistened like new in the wet rain. "It's no use, little bird. We'll need to find shelter in the woods." He kicked the horse, who responded with a furious whinny before carrying on, sullen and mad.

They slipped into the woods once again. The canopy of leaves overhead offered only the slightest relief from the heavy rainfall, and the icy drops continued to trickle relentlessly down upon them. Stranger soon refused to go any further, so the Hound had to dismount and continue on foot, pulling the stubborn horse behind him and cursing as pools of mud gathered like syrup around his ankles.

Eventually they came upon an old weirwood with thick ancient limbs growing more outward than up. "This is as good as it's going to get, little bird." He sounded as sorry as he did bitter.

They tied their horses and then the Hound threw his filthy Kingsguard cloak across two low branches, giving them a shelter with at least a small semblance of a roof. It _did_ manage to keep out a lot of the rain, Sansa was pleased to discover when she sat underneath it, huddling herself up against the base of the tree.

"This wouldn't be so bad if we had something to drink," the Hound grumbled, sliding under the cloak and sitting down beside her. "Mulled wine would be best for warming the belly, but I'm easy to please. Give me a sour Dornish red or some nice Arbor gold, it matters not. Right now I'd even welcome a cup of sweet honeywine."

Sansa glanced at him. His eyes were closed and his head was tipped back against the tree. "Lemon cakes," she said, and her voice was rich with longing. Her eyes fell shut. "Lemon cakes, with a mug of spiced tea and some roasted chestnuts sprinkled in cinnamon." Her thoughts carried her far away to the Great Hall of Winterfell, with its glowing hot fires and warm walls, where the laughter of her brothers rang happily from the yard. She thought of Arya's pesky good nature and then she thought of her parents. Gods, how she missed them all! She opened her eyes again only to be met with the gloom of the woods and Sandor Clegane huddled in close beside her. Her stomach groaned hungrily.

The Hound grumbled. "No use dreaming of cakes _or_ wine. We've only got an onion and two potatoes left, and no hope for a fire."

They hadn't had a bite to eat since that morning, when they broke their fasts on a heel of stale black bread. What she wouldn't give for a hot meal and a warm featherbed. And a bath…she craved a hot bath most of all. She had recently noticed that the Hound's sour stench no longer bothered her, and worried that this was because she smelled just as terrible_._ What if the guards at Riverrun took her for some lowly wench, or worse, a common whore? What if she wouldn't be allowed past the gates? _Don't be silly,_ she told herself, _you're a proper lady. A little dirt on your dress doesn't change a thing. _Still…"How much longer do you think it will be until we reach Riverrun?"

He sniffed sharply beside her. "A fortnight, could be. Might be more, might be less. Are you so eager to be rid of me, little bird?" He laughed, a bitter and hollow sound that made her wince.

"Of course not, I…I just miss my mother. I miss her terribly." Sansa shivered beneath her furs. The winds were blowing wet leaves from the swirling treetops, and they fell heavy to the ground and sunk into the mud. She had never seen an autumn before now, and she didn't much care for it. "What will you do after you've seen me safely to my mother?" It was a question she had been meaning to ask him for a few days now, but between his brooding detachment and angry silences, there was never a chance.

His mouth twitched against his scars. "Drown myself in wine, most like." He laughed again. Sansa frowned.

"Pardon me for saying so," she said, "but drinking yourself into stupors doesn't seem very wise. Winter is—"

"Seven hells, girl. You Starks would warn a man of winter in the spring." His lips twisted into a smirk. _He looks even uglier when he smiles, _Sansa thought. She never would have imagined that possible of anyone. "I bloody well know all about winter, little bird. I've even lived through a few of them, which is still a few more than _you_." He shot her an angry look. "And stuff your empty pardons, _my lady._ We're not in court."

Sansa sighed. She wished he didn't always have to be so harsh. _Kick a dog one too many times and he'll never trust again._ That's what Farlen used to say when one of the hounds went bad. _An angry dog is a mean dog. Keep away or you'll get bit._ The old kennel master's words blazed across her mind as though she'd just heard them yesterday. But it'd really been _ages_ since Sansa had last seen Farlen _or_ Winterfell. Or her mother. Her lip quivered. She quickly bit down the sob that ached to escape her.

If it weren't for the deep seed of loneliness inside of her, she would have gladly ignored the Hound for the rest of their journey. She was desperate for companionship, however, and he was all she had left in way of company. _And he isn't always so bad, not if you ask him the right questions… _"Well, will you continue north or return south?" She made sure to be polite, hoping that in some heaven Septa Mordane was proud of her. "They're always looking for men to join the Night's Watch. My half-brother Jon took the black. Maybe you too could go to the Wall."

The Hound barked out a laugh. "The Wall! Bloody hell. Even a lost dog has his limits." His mouth twitched. "Ah, I suspect I'll roam the north for a while, come to know its taverns. Eventually I'll run out of coin and places to hide, but that is the way of it. This is no world for broken things, little bird, and don't you doubt that for a breath." He looked down and studied the dirt under his fingernails. "I'll wager the king won't soon forget my hasty departure. There's many a men who'd want my head on a spike. Many women too, for that matter. I'll die making sure no one gets it, though. Oh, spare me your looks, girl. It's no way to live, aye, but it's better than facing the little bastard's _justice_." He nearly spat out that last word.

His words made her feel immensely sad for him. Lonely, too. "My mother will bestow a generous reward upon you for returning me to her…"

"Aye," he agreed. "She will, that."

Sansa realised then that this wasn't the first time the Hound had thought of the coin awaiting him at the end of their journey. _I'm naught more than a purse of gold to him._ The thought of that stung, but she could not say _why_ exactly it stung. She straightened. "My family will be indebted to you. Perhaps you could swear your sword to my brother Robb. He would have need of your service, I'm certain of it."

The Hound let out a snort of laughter. "Oh, you're _certain,_ are you? Tell me, little bird, would the great King of the North also raise me to lordling for all of my troubles?"

Sansa felt a sting of anger prickle inside of her. "He may."

"_'He may,'_" he sang derisively. "He _should_ is more like. If he had any honour, he would_._ Saving you from that burning hell should be worthy of a lordship in itself, yet I'm dragging you across the Seven bloody Kingdoms too. I might've been halfway to Pentos by now, had I left you behind. Or maybe I'd have gone to the Summer Isles." He glared at the falling rain. "Any bloody place would be better than _this _here_."_

Her blood began to boil. Sansa could not fathom how a man could find the energy to be so enraged. _It never ends. It's exhausting, even just listening to it_. She hated his anger more than anything else about him. "Excuse me, but it seems that it was _you_ who came to _my_ chambers that night. You _offered _to take me away. I never asked to be rescued." _Especially not by the likes of you._

The Hound's eyes flashed, cold and angry. "No, little bird, you didn't ask, did you? You just _dreamed_ about it night and day, like in all of your precious stories. Well, _here's_ your bloody story, right now. Is it all you hoped it would be?" He laughed, as rough and bitter as a sword scraping against stone. "Ah, you've got a pretty head, I'll give you that, but it's crammed full of shit and snow. All gallant knights and pretty maidens, with no room for the rest of us. Tell me, little bird, where's _my_ bloody song?"

Sansa had never felt so cold. The rain spattered heavily onto the cloak above them in a stream of icy drops, but it was the man beside her who caused her to shiver. She squeezed her arms across her chest. The Hound's breathing was ragged and angry. _He's always angry,_ she thought sullenly, _angry and mean._ His dark moods were like a disease, growing slowly each day, like grayscale. _It's only for another fortnight,_ she reminded herself. _I'll never have to see him again after that. If he only had some wine, then he might not be so bad. _Sansa wanted to cry, and had to try her best to hold the tears inside. Her lip quivered again.

The Hound snorted. "Poor little bird. All she ever wanted was a nice, sweet song. Tell it true, now. If I was as pretty as your Knight of Flowers, would it be any different?" His mouth twisted into a bitter grimace.

"Ser Loras knows how to treat a lady."

"Har! Does he? Lord Renly would piss in his grave, hearing that."

"_King _Renly," Sansa snapped, not certain why King Robert's youngest brother needed mentioning at all. "He died a king." _Maybe not a true king, but still a king. And a better man than you. _She briefly recalled the first time she ever saw Renly Baratheon; it was on the Kingsroad, just outside of the queen's carriage. He was beautiful. The world was _full_ of beautiful men, most having no more songs to their name than a common peasant, and it didn't seem to bother any of _them_.

He laughed bitterly. "Kings and lords and bloody ser's… gods, even out here! Oh, you truly are a proper bird. A stupid one, but proper." His voice was cutting and low, as sharp as Valyrian steel. "Open your eyes and look around. There's no knights, there's no ladies, not anymore, not out here. And there's no bloody lies either. So here's your truth, little bird. I'm no flowery _ser_ and I'll never have a song, but I can die just as well as any pretty storybook knight ever did. I'd never do it for the bloody glory though. Who needs all that? If I died tomorrow, it'd be just for you."

Sansa stiffened. She looked at him. Only the charred half of his face was visible to her. His pocked scars were black and oozing wet, looking as terrible as she had ever seen them. Under the mess of scars, his mangled eye slowly shifted and caught her gaze and held it. The anger was gone. For the briefest of moments Sansa yearned to reach out and touch him. But she didn't. She looked away instead.

The Hound suddenly shifted and drew his arms across his chest. "Keep watch. Tell me when the rain stops. I'm going to sleep."

Sansa's breath was caught in her throat. His voice chimed like a thousand echoes inside of her head, over and over and over and over. _He would die for me... he meant it truly. He wouldn't lie, he hates liars, he told me so himself._ Her heart tingled. No one had ever said anything so wonderful to her, not in her whole life. The words were like a dream, and they glowed warm and sweet inside of her.

Suddenly Sansa remembered herself _and _the man beside her. Shuddering, she looked at him again. Something in her swirled. It wasn't a _bad_ feeling, yet she wished it away. _Not for him,_ she begged herself,_ please not for him. _ Sansa squeezed her eyes shut tight and reminded herself that it was the _gold_ he would truly die for, not her. _He's confused because of a thirst for wine._ Some men were known to go mad for want of a drink.

Time passed. The rain did not. Continuing its dull steady lullaby, drop after drop spattered gently onto the cloak. Water pooled in the centre of the cloth; a steady leak now dribbled down upon them. The Hound was asleep. Every so often he would mutter something, but the words made no sense; Sansa only knew they were angry and so she tried her best not to listen. Once, a fitful moan escaped him and his whole body jerked. Something like a whimper caught in his throat just as he reached for his face. Sansa gently placed her hand on his arm, hoping the contact would rouse him. He murmured and then fell silent, but he did not wake.

With the tingle creeping back into her chest, Sansa stared at him. Her eyes followed the deep pockmarks on his face and then stopped to rest on the hint of exposed bone on his jaw. She studied the grotesque hole where his ear should have been. _I would be angry too, if I were even _half_ as ugly as he is._ Sansa frowned, feeling terribly ashamed for the fear she once had for him. _He's just a man, a troubled man… but he's still a person, the same as me._

Suddenly his eyes snapped open. He caught her staring at his face. "Get a nice long look, little bird? Finally like what you see?"

"No, I… I was just—"

"Shh!" he hissed suddenly. He sat up straight. "Someone's out there. Listen."

A chill of fear went through her before she even heard the voices. She grasped the Hound's arm tight and moved in closer to his side.

He gently untangled himself from her clutches. "Stay here," he said quietly. "Don't move."

"Where are you going?" Her voice sounded very small. "What are you doing?"

The Hound slipped wordlessly out from under their leaking shelter, hardly making a sound as he slowly unsheathed the longsword he loved more than any person. He made a silent gesture for her to keep still, and she watched helplessly as he crept quietly towards the voices. A man laughed good naturedly. Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, wanting it all to be over.

A few moments later he was back at her side. "Get up," he said. "Get on your Silver. We're going."

"Going? What's happening? Please, I—"

The Hound pulled his sopping cloak from the tree and then grabbed her by the arm, dragging her to her feet. "It's a farmer and his boy," he said. "Could be they're going home. We follow them, might be they lead us to a village with an inn. Would you like that, little bird? A nice warm bed to sleep in?" He dropped her arm and moved to ready Stranger. Sansa hurried to her mare, who whinnied softly and looked as elegant as ever.

They rode slowly out of the trees. Above their heads the sky was an ocean of dull grey stretching beyond the horizons. The boy and his father disappeared over the top of a long rolling hill. Having seen them, Sansa no longer felt uneasy. They were commonfolk and harmless, dressed in tunics and hose of the same roughspun wool. "We'll follow nice and slow," the Hound said.

And so they did. They followed the man and his boy for most of the afternoon, their pace slow and their conversation null, until at last they spotted a small village off ahead. The Hound dismounted Stranger and wrenched his vambraces off. "What are you doing?" she asked as he tore off more armour. She slid off of Silver and helped him.

"I don't want to look like a knight," he said. With his breastplate removed, he took off a layer of woollen padding and let it fall to the sopping ground. "People ask less questions when they're dealing with commonfolk." Reaching into a carrying satchel slung over Stranger, he pulled out a white blouse and pulled it on over his thin shirt of mail. "Remember these bushes, little bird." He stuffed his armour deep into an overgrown shrub so that it was hidden from view. "Are you well and ready, _Jeyne_?"

They rode into the village as father and daughter. The Hound paid a stable boy to feed and brush and water their horses, and to show them to the inn.

It was smaller than the last inn they stayed at, and darker too. But inside there were only two patrons, and they sat quietly by themselves and only glanced up for a moment when Sansa walked in behind the Hound. _Drunk,_ she realised as one of them let out a boisterous guffaw.

"Not many travellers come by these days," the innkeeper said cheerfully after they'd sat down next to the blazing hearth. Its warmth felt sweeter than the sun.

"Bring us wine," the Hound replied.

"Aye." The innkeeper was young and lean, with dark hair and smiling eyes, the bluest Sansa had ever seen. "And perhaps a hot meal as well? Tonight we have honeyed chicken and pork pie. Will you also be needing beds?"

"We need one room, two beds. A room with a hearth or brazier. Our clothes are wet and we would have them dry come morning. And we'll have chicken and pie both."

"As you will." The innkeeper nodded slightly and slunk away. He was back a moment later with a full flagon of dark red wine.

The Hound wasted no time downing his first cup. He sighed when the last drop trickled into his belly as though he'd never known a finer taste. By the time their meals were brought to them he'd already ordered a second flagon.

"Where are you folks from?" the innkeeper asked. He smiled at Sansa.

"White Harbor."

"White Harbor? You're a long ways from home. What brings you to these parts?"

"A wedding." The Hound licked some honey off of his fingers. "The girl would take a bath as well."

Sansa suddenly looked up from under her hood. _A bath! _Sweeter words than any song she knew.

"That's going to cost extra."

"Just see to it, boy. I'm not concerned about the coin."

"Very good. I'll have my sister prepare the water."

Sansa waited until he'd disappeared into the kitchen before looking up at the Hound. The wine had made her lightheaded and she could not help the smile on her face. "Thank you," she said. "For the bath. And the meal. Well, for everything, really."

He grimaced slightly and then took a generous swallow of wine. "Sour red from Dorne," was all he said. He let his eyes fall to the contents of his cup and said no more.

By the time her bath was ready Sansa had a belly full of food and a head full of wine. The innkeeper's sister led her up the narrow staircase where a bath was waiting. The two were of an age, that much was clear, but inside Sansa felt much older than the skinny girl who held open the door for her. _She's as bony as Arya, and just as dirty._

"One of our finest rooms," the girl said, before moving to close the door so Sansa could be left in private.

"Wait," Sansa said. The girl stopped and stared blankly at her. "Would you stay? I… I could use your help getting undressed."

The girl's eyes shifted towards the stairs. "I've work in the kitchens to tend to." There was no _m'lady_ after she spoke. _I'm no longer a lady, there are no more ladies, no out here. I'm just a dog's daughter._

"Please." Sansa did not wish to be alone. Loneliness loomed heavy inside of her. To have the company of someone other than the Hound, even for a small while, was more appealing than a plate of freshly baked lemon cakes. "Tell me, what is your name?"

"Lysa."

"Lysa. I have an aunt named Lysa. It's a very pretty name." Sansa didn't see what harm there was in admitting that. _Lot's of people have aunts, and lot's of those aunts could be named Lysa. _

The girl looked past her. "Your bathwater's getting cold. I'll help you undress, but then I have to go." She stepped back into the room and shut the door behind her. "Gods," she said cheerfully, "will this rain ever cease?"

It was a comfortable room. There was a fire burning in the hearth and two beds that looked as soft as summer clouds. Sansa could hardly wait to crawl under the blankets and fall into a deep dreamless sleep. She pulled off her brown travelling cloak and her furs. The girl stood and watched her carefully. "That's such a beautiful dress." Her voice was a whisper of awe and envy. "Where did you get it?"

Immediately Sansa regretted letting Lysa into the room. Her furs, her boots, her dress_…_ they all spoke of her true birth. "My father had it made for me," she said quickly. "For a wedding we attended. In Rosby."

Lysa's eyes sparkled with the same smile as her brother. "Your father is that man downstairs?"

A iron grip suddenly squeezed Sansa's heart. _No! _she wanted to scream. _My father is Lord Eddard Stark, the most honourable man in the entire realm! That man down there is…_ "Yes."

"Beg pardon for me asking, but what happened to his face?"

The question was very bold, and not one that many serving girls would ever dare pose upon a lady. Sansa had to ignore the rush of annoyance bristling inside her. _Everyone must wonder about the scars when they see him. I was once no better._ _No wonder he's so surly all the time. _"Unlace me," she commanded, ignoring the question and turning around so that her back was to the girl.

Lysa's fingers worked slowly. "Your _father_ doesn't like me brother." She laughed. It was a very pretty laugh, soft and cheerful, the nicest sound Sansa had heard in a long time.

"He doesn't like anyone."

"That's too bad," Lysa said. "Me own father's dead."

_Mine too_. "I'm sorry."

"Died fighting for King Stannis. Most like he died at the Blackwater, Mycah says. Mycah's me brother. All the girls like him. Do _you_ like him?" Sansa ignored this question too, and Lysa continued on unabashed. "They say the world was on fire the night me father died, as though dragons had come back to life. They say even the sky burned, that all the hells shone over the kingdom."

_They tell it true then._ "What else do they say?" Her dress was unlaced and she let it fall to the floor. Lysa turned away as Sansa stepped out of her smallclothes and into the bath. The water was wonderfully warm as it settled in around her.

"They say a lot of things," the girl said. She turned back to Sansa now. "They say the king's a bastard."

"Everyone knows that," Sansa snapped, not meaning to be so impatient.

Lysa frowned. "They say there really _are _dragons, far away, across the Narrow Sea. Not just one but _three_."

_Dragons! _Sansa did not wish to hear of such mummer's nonsense. "That's just stupid," she said.

Lysa gave a small shrug. "It's what they say. I was wondering, are you a bastard?"

"Pardon?"

"A bastard. The burned man's bastard. Not a woman alive would ever marry a face like that…" She trailed off, her voice soft and sing-songy.

"That's a very rude thing to say about my father, Lysa." Sansa had to remind herself again that she was not a lady out here. _Is this how they always talk, the commonfolk? _

"It's also very rude to lie. I know that man's not your father. That's the king's hound. Everyone's heard of him. Haven't figured out who _you _are, though."

Sansa wished the Hound were here right now. _He would know how to silence this brazen little thing._ She tried to remember her courtesies though. "Please. You won't say anything, will you? We're only minding our own."

"No need to trouble yourself," Lysa said. Her voice was sweet and kind. "I want no more business in this bloody war than you or your dog. I wonder, though, who you are. His whore maybe? Hmm. Don't worry, I won't tell. Me father died for one of these bloody kings, and for what? The fighting still goes on and the world grows a little smaller each day. Only reason Mycah isn't dead is because he fell off his horse when he was a boy and he can't march. Did you notice he's lame? He hobbles when he walks, but he hides it well behind his pretty face." She studied Sansa's face then. "You're the dog's whore, aren't you? Oh, you poor girl. I heard in King's Landing they've got the finest brothel in all the Seven Kingdoms. You're one of them pretty little whores I heard of, aren't you?"

Sansa's bathwater truly was getting cold by now. She was very sorry to have invited this girl into her room. "Thank you for your company," she said. "I would be alone now."

The girl smiled kindly. "As you wish." She slipped silently out of the room then. Sansa was alone again, feeling even lonelier than she'd been before the bath. She immediately went to work scrubbing herself clean. By the time she was finished the water was cold and dirty, but her skin was pink and clean. She did not think of her conversation with Lysa again.

Sansa pulled on a soft blue nightgown of the finest wool, warmed and dried by the fire's heat. She brushed her hair until it shone softer than silk. Soon her eyes became heavy and she lay back on one of the beds and pulled the blankets over her. Sleep came to her almost immediately.

She dreamed of the battle at King's Landing. The sky was engulfed in green flames that reached even into her chambers. Only instead of the Hound, it was Joffrey waiting in her bed. He clambered for her before she could turn away, grabbing her and forcing her down on her back. "Sing for me," he commanded. His voice sounded raspy and rough, not his own. "Go on. _Sing_." When Sansa refused, he closed his hands around her neck and squeezed, harder and harder until she couldn't breathe any longer…

Sansa woke with a start, sitting up in bed and gasping for air. For a moment she wasn't sure where she was. She almost panicked. Then it came back to her… _It was only a dream. Joffrey can't hurt me anymore._

An oil lamp was burning dim on the nightstand next to her bed. Its soft light illuminated Sandor Clegane's monstrous scars. He was sitting on the edge of his own bed, watching her. All of the anger had left his face. "Little bird," he whispered. His eyes fell to his lap.

Sansa suddenly pulled she sheets up around her. She was too startled to speak. _Why was he staring at me that way?_ The look in his eyes sent a chill through her.

"Some travellers arrived," he said. "Three men. They knew who I was, aye, but they cared not for what I was doing. I shared my wine and they shared their stories." He paused for a moment, his breath soft and ragged. "There's news, little bird. From the north."

"News?" Her heart began to thump in her chest. "What of it?" Lysa hadn't said anything about any news from the north.

"Winterfell." He looked at her once more, his mouth twitching. "It's fallen."

Sansa sat up a little straighter. "Fallen? What do you mean _fallen_? No, that's impossible, it…" The Hound shook his head gently. "How?" Her voice was no more than a whisper.

"The Greyjoy boy. Your father's ward."

"_Theon_?" Sansa's mind was whirling. She felt sick. _Not Theon._ That truly was impossible. _Surely there's some mistake here. Men like to tell stories when they're drunk. That must be it._ Besides, Theon would be fighting with her brother Robb right now… "It cannot be," Sansa said.

"It can and it is. There's more, too." The Hound was suddenly very careful not to meet her eye. "It's about your brothers... the little ones."

Dread swirled inside of her stomach, and slowly seeped up into the cracking hole in her heart. If something happened to her sweet brothers... _No, I do not want to know!_ But the look on the Hound's face was explanation enough. "Bran... Rickon." She couldn't bring herself to ask. All of a sudden she was a child again, frightened and shaking and utterly helpless.

"Murdered. By the Greyjoy boy himself."

The hole inside of her suddenly burst open, ripping through her heart and tearing out her breath. It was a pain like nothing else. Numbness stabbed her like a thousand knives. Tears were quick to follow. And then Sansa was sobbing like she never had before.

The Hound sat frozen across from her. He said something, but in her grief she couldn't make sense of his words. _Bran wanted to be a knight, but instead he fell from a tower and woke up a cripple._ _All of that, and for what?_ And Rickon… oh, baby Rickon had the sweetest laugh she ever heard. _It cannot be!_ Her dear father had raised Theon Greyjoy amongst his own children; he was almost as much a brother to her as Jon Snow...

Her body shook with uncontrollable, choking sobs. The Hound stood up from his bed. A moment later he sat down next to her, but made no further attempt to comfort her. Sansa cried alone. When the pain at last became too much for her to bear, it was _she _who reached out for _him,_ burying her tear-soaked face into his chest and clutching his linen blouse tight. He momentarily stiffened at the contact, and then sat there as hard and unmoving as a mountain of ice.

Eventually her tears ran dry and her breathing slowed, but still she did not move. The Hound shifted in an attempt to look at her. He shook her gently. "You should lie down and sleep, little bird. You'll feel better come morning."

If Sansa had any will left inside of her, she might have slapped him. _Feel better come morning!_ A night's sleep could never make her forget that her sweet brothers had been murdered! That her father's head had rolled near her feet. That Arya was most likely gone as well.

Death truly did mean nothing to the Hound. _He's probably killed dozens of boys, ones even younger than Rickon. _Her stomach swirled violently at the thought, and yet still she could not make herself budge. When he made a move to stand up, Sansa's fingers tightened around his blouse and held him there beside her. She pressed her face against his chest and listened to the hard steady beat of his heart.

"Little bird," he finally said, his voice barely more than a whisper. His breath smelled strongly of wine. _He's drunk._ _He's drunk and he doesn't care about your dead brothers._ Sansa suddenly released him. He stayed there beside her, quiet as a shadow and still as a stone.

Inside Sansa was numb. She yearned for her mother. The longing was so great that her eyes stung with the salty onslaught of fresh tears. "I loved my brothers," she said softly. She could feel the Hound watching her, but he did not speak. "I loved my father, I loved Septa Mordane, I loved Jory, and I loved Arya, headstrong and stubborn as she was." The tears pooling in her eyes made the room seem blurry. Perhaps if she tried hard enough, she would think she was someplace else, _with_ someone else. "They're all gone." Her voice seemed flat and unfamiliar to her. "Dead." Sansa let the world turn to a mist inside of her tears, not blinking for fear of losing the effect. She wished the Hound would say something, _anything,_ but he didn't. He stayed silent, his breath raspy and drunken.

"Do you even know what it's like?" she asked him. "Do you know how it feels to lose someone you love?" Sansa allowed her tears to fall from her eyes. She wanted to be able to look at his face when he answered her. _Does he even know _how_ to love?_

His scars twitched as he stared broodingly down at his hands. Enough time passed that she began to feel annoyed by his silence, and then a bit uncomfortable. Sansa almost gave up waiting for an answer when he finally spoke. "I had a sister once." His voice was softer than usual.

"What happened to her?"

He grimaced slightly. "She's gone. That's all that matters."

Oddly enough, Sansa completely understood. She had no wish to talk about what had happened to Bran and Rickon, and dreaded the moment when she actually would learn the gruesome truth of their deaths. It still did not seem real to her. The last time she had seen them had been a lifetime ago. _That was another world._ She was a girl then, the sort of girl who was frightened more by ugly scars than evil hearts. "I hope Joffrey's dead," said suddenly. She meant it, too.

"Aye." The Hound nodded. "We'd have heard though, were that so."

Up until now she had done her best not to imagine Joffrey's reaction to her disappearance. _Does he know who I'm with? _Sansa was certain that at least a few guards had seen _someone_ riding out of the city with Sandor Clegane. _Does Joffrey know this someone was me? _"What will happen to us, should his men—"

"No one's going to find us, little bird." He sniffed casually. "And I'll kill any man that does."

Sansa studied his face carefully. "Why?" she asked.

The Hound looked at her. "_Why_?" He almost laughed. "Need you really ask that, girl?"

"I meant _why_ are you doing this, why did you rescue me at all? You don't even _like_ me. Is all this trouble really worth a little gold?"

He stiffened. After a moment he turned his face away from her and stared into the hearth. The fire had burned down to near cinders and the room was getting colder for it. "I'll get another log started," he said softly. He made a move to stand up, but Sansa grabbed his arm to stop him.

"Answer me." She spoke it as a command, like a lady would.

The Hound's scars glistened in the faint light of the room, a ghastly distortion of blackened craters and deep, wet fissures. He stared down at his calloused hands and his mouth twitched. "It's not the gold I want."

Sansa watched him, expecting him to continue, but he didn't. The gentle tingle she'd felt earlier that day slowly returned to her, creeping its way through her stomach and up into her chest. It was a rather pleasant sensation, she hated to admit, though she felt immensely guilty for feeling it. She wished it would go away. _"It'd be just for you," _his grating voice echoed inside her head. Sansa suddenly felt very warm.

The tingle reached her heart, and it fluttered in response. She tried so desperately to ignore the feeling. _It's improper. It's indecent_. There had been a time when Joffrey had made her tingle too. _But it never felt quite like this._

The Hound looked at her then. His eyes were sullen, the anger that usually pierced them all but gone. Sansa waited for him to say something. Long seconds went by. She began to think that maybe he wanted to _kiss_ her. _What would I do then?_ She tried to imagine touching her lips to his, of that hard twitching mouth pressed against her own. A strange mixture of disgust and desire swirled inside her stomach. When he made a move to inch closer to her, Sansa immediately turned her face away. She closed her eyes, a flush of shame burning upon her cheeks.

He suddenly stood up. She forced herself to look at him again. His mouth had gone tight with anger. His eyes, too. There was also something else there that ran much deeper...

Before she could make sense of it, he grabbed the oil lamp and extinguished the flame. The room was cast in darkness. A moment later his bed groaned under his weight.

The silence in the room was deafening. Sansa wanted to say something. She wanted him to sit next to her and try to kiss her again. _This time I won't look away._ The thought made her shudder.

She said nothing more, and neither did he.


	4. Chapter 4

The rains had finally stopped during the night. Sansa was still awake listening when the very last drops hit the side of the inn. Afterwards the world went quiet. The girl she used to be might have believed it was the gods offering a moment of silence for her dead brothers. _I__t's just the rain letting up,_ she'd thought instead, _and_ _nothing more. _She no longer believed in silly things.

In spite of having had a roof over her head and a warm bed beneath her, Sansa had not slept well. It was now morning and she was more tired than she had been in weeks. From within the dark walls of the inn she could hear the birds singing happy and free outside, clueless to the realm's indignities and sufferings. How she envied them! _Rickon always loved birds and sunshine._ Thinking of his little face sent a stab of numbness through her. She hoped to the old gods and the new her brothers were now with their father, and that all three of them were at peace.

Sansa broke her fast with the Hound on runny goose eggs and fried bread. He sat across from her, hunched over his plate in a dark brooding silence. He'd hardly spoken a word to her all morning. "Too much wine last night," he grumbled at her first thing, "so spare me your bloody chatter today." No _little bird_ followed, not even a gruff _girl._ She kept her eyes on her food and picked at it quietly, not feeling the least bit hungry.

By the time they left the inn Sandor Clegane was already well into the drink; he'd already finished a full flagon of wine before finishing his meal. With a stumble in his step, he led Sansa outside and then angrily shielded his eyes from the morning sun. "Seven hells," he cursed under his breath, "it's too bloody bright." He took a long swig from his wineskin and staggered off toward the stables.

Sansa followed him. The sun was still much too low in the sky for it to be considered bright. She frowned. _He's just miserable and expects the sky and everything beneath it to be just as sour as he is. _It was going to be another long day, of that she was quite certain.

Although it was still early, the winds were warm and the ground was already drying up. Sansa was pleased to finally have some nice weather. She breathed in the fresh air as they walked. Yet somehow it didn't feel right to have such a beautiful day so soon after the demise of her brothers. _The world has already forgotten Bran and Rickon. Father and Arya as well._ The least she could hope for was that her mother and Robb were doing well in Riverrun.

The same stableboy from the night before was tending to their horses when they reached the stables. "They're saddled and fed and watered," the boy told Sandor Clegane, smiling brightly.

"As they should be," the Hound grunted, his voice grating and sharp. He tossed his things over Stranger's back and secured them tight. "Don't just stand there. Help the girl." He climbed onto his horse and waited.

Flustered, the boy quickly moved to help Sansa onto her mare. The Hound watched, angry and unblinking. Once she was sitting atop her Silver, Sansa quietly thanked the stableboy. "Be careful out there today," he called after them as they headed out, "there's word of some strange folk nearby. A group of men."

That caught Sandor's attention. He stopped and looked back at the boy. "What men?"

"A band of outlaws, most like. They were spotted entering the Riverlands from the south."

Sansa watched the Hound's mouth twitch. After a moment he reached into his purse and then tossed the boy a copper. "It's no matter," he said with a shrug, "we're heading east." Without another word he spurred Stranger onward.

_Why east? _Sansa wondered, following quietly behind him. _Riverrun is to the west. _Did he no longer mean to deliver her to her mother? A feeling of panic slowly began to build up inside of her. With the village well at their backs and the thick wall of trees looming tall in front of them, she needed to know. "Why are we going east? My mother is—"

"I know where your bloody mother is," the Hound said sharply, "but with outlaws about and men in the village who know me, it's best we shut up about our plans. Is that fine, _my lady, _or would you have me go back and draw them up a map? They'd have a much easier time finding us then. Gods, wouldn't that be nice?" He snorted in disgust. "Now would you shut your mouth for once? I can't think with all your bloody jabbering."

Sansa glared at his back, unable to ignore the hurtful sting of his words. At that moment she hated every inch of him, from his furious eyes and hideously disfigured face, right down to the filthy mud-caked boots he was wearing. "Well, pardon me for reminding you, but what of your armour? It's still hidden in those bushes." _I bet he didn't even remember..._

He took a long pull from his wineskin and grumbled. "I know where it is. Same way those outlaws were spotted." There was a coldness in his tone that made Sansa shiver. She didn't dare speak another word. They slipped wordlessly beneath the shadows of the trees. _How is he supposed to protect me if he can't protect himself?_ She knew better than to ask that aloud.

The morning passed in a heavy silence that seemed to steal all the warmth from the day. From time to time she would look at the Hound, feeling both angry and sad all at once. He rode as though she didn't exist, taking casual swigs of his wine and looking at anything but her. Sansa felt desperately lonely for her family. She passed the time softly crying for her brothers, and wishing she were someplace else.

They didn't pause to rest their mounts until the early afternoon, when the Hound suddenly stopped and dismounted. He led Stranger to a small creek and silently stood there while the horse drank. Sansa slid off of Silver's back and stood there for a few moments watching him. His cold quiescence tickled her spine. _He guards his thoughts as though they are all he has left in this world. _Sansa frowned at that. Save for his horse, his clothes and the gold he'd won at her father's tourney, he really _didn't _have anything left in the world. In spite of his ill temper, she once again felt immensely sorry for him. _He has nowhere to go, and no one to love him. _She slowly led her mare to the creek and stood next to him, her chest feeling strangely tight.

Both horses drank thirstily. The Hound stared down at the bubbling water and his mouth twitched broodingly. "Are we still heading east?" Sansa asked him after a while. It was a question that had been burning on her lips all morning. She didn't see how he could get mad at her for wanting to know _that_.

"Northwest." He turned away from her and reached into one of his saddlebags. After a moment he pulled out a loaf of bread he'd convinced the innkeep to sell him. For a few coppers he also bought some cheese and vegetables. It was a small comfort, knowing they had food enough for at least a few days of riding.

Sansa watched him tear two large pieces from the loaf, and a moment later she clumsily caught the portion he flung her way. He crouched on a rock and ate his share in silence, taking a generous drink of wine after nearly every bite. Not once did he glance her way.

Standing there nibbling at her bread, Sansa did her best to ignore the tension and hostility in the air. The Hound's face was taut and hard and he chewed his bread as though he were punishing it. _I'm glad I didn't let him kiss me,_ she thought suddenly, though she also quickly wondered if he might be nicer to her had she _not_ turned away from him. As much as she hated to admit it, she was now wondering many things about Sandor Clegane.

She recalled a time, years ago now, when her friend Jeyne Poole had been gone for nigh six weeks staying with some relatives near the Dreadfort. When she came back to Winterfell it was with a score of spicy stories from her older cousin, who was, as Jeyne put it, _versed in the way of men._ "Most men only want to put their cock in you, that's what Alyss says." At first such talk had shocked and embarrassed Sansa, but those feelings quickly gave way to a burning curiosity. She was soon pleading with Jeyne to tell her everything she knew. "It gets big and stiff when a man's ready. Nothing like the little worms the boys at the baths have." They'd giggled furiously at that. Then Jeyne told her that when a man is nice to a woman, it only means he is stiff for her. "That's how you know he wants to bed you."

Sansa glanced at the Hound. _He's anything but nice to me. _Realising that brought her little comfort. She watched as he knelt next to the creek, making a cup of his clasped hands and then splashing water over his face and hair. From where she stood his scars were hidden from view, but that didn't mean he looked any less horrible. _Or less ugly._ Every day he seemed to be more hideous than the day before. _Except for last night, for that one quick moment when he tried to kiss me. _Sansa shuddered every time she thought about it.

When he stood up again he finally glanced her way, grimacing slightly when he saw that she'd been watching him. "Didn't your bloody septa ever tell you not to stare?"

She ignored his hostility; she was discovering that was really the only way to tolerate him. "Could I have something more to eat?" Sansa was still hungry, and was regretting not finishing her meal earlier that morning. "Please."

The Hound stumbled back to his horse and pulled out a wheel of cheese from a saddlebag. He unwrapped its cloth covering and cut off a wedge. Scowling, he passed it to her. "I saw some berries not long ago," he grumbled, stashing the rewrapped cheese away again. "If we come across more we'll stop. You can pick them." He turned away from her before she could reply, petting Stranger's sleek black coat and drinking some more of his wine.

The cheese was bitter and hard. Sansa slowly sauntered while she ate it, wishing to get away from the Hound if even just for a few moments. He made no effort to stop her. _He knows I won't go anywhere, _she thought sullenly, _or he's too drunk to care if I do._

Only when she could no longer see him through the trees did Sansa stop. She sat down on a large flat rock next to the creek and closed her eyes, listening to the babbling of the water. Bran's face appeared under her eyelids. She immediately felt tightness in her chest. When she pictured Theon Greyjoy's smiling face, betrayal and then anger coursed through her. _Mother never trusted that smile,_ Sansa thought, furiously wiping away the tears in her eyes, _no more than she trusted Father becoming the King's Hand._ Aching everywhere with loneliness, she briefly wondered what her mother would think of Sandor Clegane.

Sansa finished her piece of cheese and then continued to stare down at the water. She wished there was a godswood nearby so she could pray for her brothers. _But what would I be praying for? They're already dead._ She sat there for a long time. The leaves rustled gently in the warm breeze. She cried some more. She cried until her eyes were dried out and burning. Afterwards she splashed water onto her face, over and over again, wanting to wash away her grief. _There will be plenty of time for mourning once this is all over,_ she told herself, _but_ _for now I need to keep strong. Gods know I will need all of my strength to suffer this journey._

When she found the Hound again, he was leaning back against an old willow tree, taking a drink from his wineskin. He glanced at her. "I was beginning to think those outlaws had found you, little bird." His speech was slurred. Something between a scoff and a laugh escaped him.

_He's completely drunk again._ Sansa stood over him, feeling a ripple of revulsion when their eyes met. "And would that have pleased you, my being stolen away by _outlaws_?"

For a quick moment his mouth went tight. He looked away from her and shrugged; it was a disheartened gesture, as insincere as his laugh had been a moment ago. "Get yourself ready," he grumbled in way of reply. "We're leaving." He stood up slowly and then staggered over to Stranger. "Gods," he muttered, steadying himself against the horse, "too much bloody wine." It took him three pathetic attempts to finally climb up into the saddle.

Their pace was agonisingly slow going after that, even for Sansa, who usually preferred the more gentle rides to the harder runs. The Hound could barely sit upright in his saddle. She watched him as he swayed atop his horse, his shoulders slumped and his chin lolling against his chest. It quickly became obvious he was asleep, and that it was Stranger who was guiding them blindly along.

Sansa coughed, feeling thoroughly annoyed and hoping the sound might rouse him. It didn't. She clapped, and he stirred slightly. Then he lost his balance and slowly slunk out of the saddle. Stranger stopped and whickered. Sprawled across the ground, the Hound's foot remained tangled in the stirrup. He groaned softly, but did not move.

Disgusted, Sansa dismounted Silver and then tied the mare to a tree near the creek. She went back over to the Hound and pulled his boot free from the stirrup. Stranger whickered uneasily. "_Quiet_," she snapped at the horse, in no mood. She snatched his reins and pulled him towards the creek, trying him up next to Silver. He snuffed angrily at her, but made none of his usual attempts to kick or bite. Sansa left the Hound where he was, asleep in the dirt.

Hours seemed to go by. Sansa wished she had a book to read. The thought of outlaws made her feel nervous. What would she do if they suddenly appeared? Without the Hound to protect her, she was utterly helpless.

She passed the time brushing out her hair and cleaning her nails and washing some of her clothes in the creek. After that she tended to Silver. "I would brush you out as well," she told Stranger, "but you're nasty and mean and will only try to kick me, so you'll have to do without." The black warhorse stared at her, and for a moment she thought she recognised a look of dejected understanding in his eyes. Sansa felt a small tingle of satisfaction at that.

Throughout the afternoon the Hound slept fitfully. He kept twitching and mumbling incoherent nothings. Every now and again his body would give a fretful jolt. _He's even wretched when his dreams. _Though Sansa found herself feeling sorry for him again, despite truly wishing she wouldn't.

There was not much light left in the day. Sansa wondered about supper. She didn't want bread and hard cheese again, but the Hound was still asleep. Up until that point it was he who'd done all of the cooking whenever they had something hot to eat. Sansa had never cooked anything in her entire life.

She thought about making a stew. _It can't be difficult... it's just vegetables in gravy. _She wanted the Hound to wake up and find supper ready. Then he might actually appreciate having her around for once. Perhaps he would even treat her nicely and speak to her as though she weren't a constant burden. Gods knew, Sansa was growing very tired of his endless bitterness.

With Stranger asleep, Sansa carefully reached into one of the saddlebags. She pulled out a few vegetables, wishing they had some meat too. Then she quietly knelt beside the Hound and slid his dagger out from the scabbard on his belt. He stirred and muttered something, but did not wake up.

Sansa had seen the Hound cutting up vegetables before. He always did it with ease and hardly had to look at what he was doing. She held a potato in one hand, clutched his heavy dagger in the other and then gently slid the blade into the bulb; it caught in the centre. Sansa pressed down harder. The dagger slipped easily through the potato, but it did not stop there. She cried out as the blade went hard into her skin. When she pulled it away, blood immediately started to gush out of her palm. For a moment she saw just how _deep_ the cut went. Horrified, she shrieked.

The Hound woke up with a start. He saw the blood rushing out of her clenched fist. For such a large man, he moved remarkably fast to her side. He took her hand in his own with surprising delicacy. "Bloody hell," he said, glancing at the dagger and the potato lying on the ground. "You're all right. Come here." He took her to the creek and carefully guided her hand into the cool water. Blood spurted out of her palm in heavy pulses and turned to mist beneath the water. Sansa gasped as the current pushed into her open wound.

"Don't move," he rasped softly. He pulled his white Kingsguard cloak from a saddlebag and then grabbed the dagger from the ground. He cut through the soft cloth and came away with a long thin strip. Cleaning the cloth under the water, he glanced at her. "Stop crying," he said, though not unkindly. He reached for her again, and then carefully began to wind the torn strip of cloak around her hand.

Sansa was trembling. She took what little comfort she could in watching him while he worked. His eyes were diligently focused as he slowly wound the cloth around and around her hand. "This will help to stave the bleeding some," he told her. A lot of blood had already soaked through the cloth, forming a thick seeping pool of the deepest red. It was very warm. Sansa cringed.

The Hound finished dressing the wound. But then instead of releasing her hand, he continued to hold it, frowning and staring down at her bleeding palm. After a moment he let his fingertips slide gently across her own. Sansa watched his face, but he didn't look back up at her. His mouth was tight. It seemed to take a long time for him to finally let her go. "Put your hand back under the water, little bird. The coolness will help take away the sting."

With the white tourniquet already soaked through with blood, Sansa dipped her trembling hand into the water. The Hound stood up without a word and went to cut more strips of cloth from his cloak. He worked in steadfast silence, not once looking her way.

Sansa stared down at her hand. Blood continued to swish out in small washes of red, but the tourniquet was tight and there was not as much as there had been. Her hand throbbed gently, but the cool water helped to lessen the dull ache. As she sat there, she began to feel quite foolish, and very useless. "I only wanted to prepare a stew," she said after a while.

The Hound momentarily paused mid-cut to look her way. He frowned and then turned his attention back to the cloth so he could finish his cut. "We'll have to change your dressing often for the first few days, to keep you good and clean. You don't want an infection getting into that nice hand of yours."

_Nice hand._ Sansa grimaced to herself, too afraid to ask, but nonetheless needing to know. "Will there be a scar?"

"Aye, most like there will be." He carefully studied her face. "Nothing wrong with a scar. Adds character."

Sansa knew he was only trying to be kind, but the thought of a big red scar across her hand was anything but appealing. She couldn't pretend to feel otherwise, and so she turned away from him and looked back down at her dressing. The throb in her hand was deeper now as she adjusted to the coolness of the creek's babbling waters. _There is no good story in this,_ she thought miserably. She vowed to never tell a soul about what truly happened. _Cutting into a potato, of all the foolish things..._

Dusk was soon upon them. Having slept off his inebriation for most of the afternoon, the Hound was now alert and busying himself behind her, setting up their camp for the night. Sansa glanced back at him just as he was reaching for his wineskin. _He's going to start drinking again already._ She could hardly believe it.

But instead of taking a drink, he poured what wine he had left into his helm. "I'll boil this once it gets dark," he told her. "Still too light yet for a fire. If there are outlaws about, they'd spot the rising smoke easy."

Sansa looked at his snarling hound helm, thinking about the wine inside of it. "Will it hurt?" she asked softly.

He nodded. "It will."

Sansa looked back down at her hand, trembling and wishing he could have at least lied to her.

Night fell upon them at last. The Hound started a fire and then set the rest of his wine to boil. While they waited, they nibbled silently on hard cheese and bread. The cloth around her hand was now a deep brown colour, stained dark by her blood. She was still bleeding some, but it had slowed up significantly.

At last the Hound stood up and came over to her. He took her hand and began unravelling the long strip of cloth wrapped around it. He worked slow and carefully. Finally the last bit of his once white cloak was free of her skin. He studied her palm. His mouth tightened into a grimace. "This will hurt, little bird. Know that, but don't pull away. There's no more wine left and no maesters about with their potions."

Telling her it would hurt had been a great understatement. As the scalding hot wine drizzled slowly down into the open crevice of her palm, the sting and the burn were almost too much to bear. Sansa let out an agonising cry. The Hound held firmly onto her wrist with his free hand, making sure she did not pull away. Oh, how she wanted to pull away! She wanted to scream, too, but her voice had left her.

And then it was over. The last of the wine trickled across her palm and then dribbled down to the earth. Sansa's breathing slowly returned in small little gasps. Tears burned in her eyes.

Sandor Clegane was watching her. "I've seen hardened men cry more from that than you did, little bird." The light of the fire danced in flickering shadows upon his skin. His scars looked positively terrible, but she hardly noticed. Sansa couldn't help the sweet fluttering sensation from suddenly returning in her stomach. The feeling was much more intense than it had been the night before.

Before she even knew what she was doing she reached up and touched his face with a trembling hand. Their eyes locked. His nostrils flared as she nervously ran her fingers down his unscarred cheek and then across his chin. She stopped there for a moment, hesitating, and his eyes narrowed slightly. Finally she moved her fingers slowly over to his scars. He flinched. "Don't," he said suddenly, taking her by the wrist and drawing her hand away. For a moment he didn't say anything and he didn't move. At last he stood up. "I'll get a clean strip of cloth. Redress that hand of yours."

He did just that. Sansa was certain he could feel her gaze on him while he worked, but he didn't look at her. Once her wound was dressed, he let go of her hand and sat staring into the fire. His mouth twitched.

They sat in silence for a while, the same way they always did. It was a cool clear night with little breeze and no chill in the air. Sansa glanced over at him. "Thank you," she said softly. "For taking such good care of me. I'll make sure my mother knows how generous you've been."

He nodded slightly, but said nothing.

Sansa watched the fire dancing against the deepening darkness. The wood crackled under the flames and the creek bubbled softly behind them. Her hand still throbbed but at least the bleeding had almost stopped. "I'm sorry to have wasted your wine," she said. "I know it was all you had left."

His eyes never left the fire. "It matters not," he said. "I drink too much as it is."

She frowned, surprised to hear him say that. "What is it about wine you like so much?"

He laughed grimly. "Who says I like it?"

"Well, you drink it so often, I just assumed…"

"Aye, you assume a lot of things." He picked at his nails.

"If you don't like it, why do you drink?"

"To forget," he said sharply. "To forget today and yesterday and every miserable day that came before." His mouth was taut and twitching. The familiar angry glint slowly began to return to his eyes. That look frightened her. He was cold and cruel whenever he wore that look. She wished it would go away.

"Does it work?"

The Hound was quiet for quite some time. His eyes remained trained on the fire. "No," he said at last, sounding sullen and mad.

She studied him carefully. "Maybe you should stop, then."

He looked at her suddenly, his eyes flashing cold and fierce. "What in seven hells do you know, little bird?"

"I know that you tried to kiss me." The words left her lips before she'd even had the chance to think about them. She hadn't actually _meant_ to say them out loud.

But it was too late; he'd heard her. His mouth hardened beneath an angry grimace. "And that disgusted you, did it?" He looked away from her and shook his head. "Seven hells, girl. I was pissed drunk. I would've kissed a bloody _pig_ were there one to be had."

The quickness with which his anger rose was frightening. It hit her like a slap across the face. "You're lying," she said suddenly. "You wanted to kiss _me._" She couldn't quite say _why_ it mattered so much to her. _But it does._

He shrugged. "Aye, I did. So what? There's not a man alive who wouldn't want a pretty thing like you."

Sansa felt angry; she felt sick. Up until that point she hadn't been entirely sure what exactly he'd meant when he said it wasn't the gold he wanted. Now she knew. "That's why you took me from King's Landing, isn't it?"

His mouth twisted and twitched as he stared hard at her. "It is," he said in a low angry growl. "Now _you_ tell _me_ something, little bird. You like asking questions so much, why don't you try answering a few for once. Why in seven hells did you come with me?" The whites of his eyes were big and wild against the flickering flames and the black of night. Sansa shrunk away from him. "Suddenly the pretty bird has nothing to say." He looked at her with angry disgust. "Why are you so bloody scared? You needn't be, I won't hurt you. I'll vow to never touch you again." His mouth went tight once more and he looked away, grumbling under his breath and looking back into the flames.

Sansa suddenly felt a pang of guilt rush through her. What exactly it was she felt guilty about, she could not say. But the feeling was strong and it ached and it was enough to make her reach out and touch him again. He turned to look at her, and his eyes were furious. But before he could say a word, Sansa quickly leaned in and kissed him. It was a soft, shy kiss, and it was over before it even really started. When she pulled away, her face was burning hot and her heart hammered inside her chest. All over she suddenly trembled, unable to believe what she had done. She had to force herself to look at him.

When their eyes met, his expression immediately softened. And he didn't hesitate for a breath; before she could blink, his hand was in her hair and he was pulling her mouth back to his. This time it was a true kiss, long and slow and sweet. Sansa never wanted it to end; for a while it seemed like it never _would _end.

The sudden quick sharp snap of a twig is what finally startled them apart. They both jumped and turned instinctively towards the sound. Her heart sunk deep into her stomach. Standing there before them were the outlines of at least five men, mere shadows behind the blinding light of the flame, but there all the same. Sandor suddenly moved to grab for his sword, but Sansa gripped him tight and held him there beside her. One of the men, an archer, was aiming a loaded shaft at them. The Hound saw that and then sat back down next to her. She clutched his arm tight, too frightened to even breathe.

"Seven hells," one of the men was saying, "is that…?" He took a curious step closer. The Hound's ragged breathing became slow and angry as the man approached. "Gods, it is!" he exclaimed. "It's the king's bloody dog."

"Clegane?" asked one of the men.

"The one and only."

"Seven bloody hells."

The first man stepped forward and his face slowly came into view. He was a round man with drooping skin and light hair that looked almost silver against the firelight. He looked directly at the Hound and smiled. "Hello again, dog. You surely remember me."

"Burn in seven hells, Myr."

The man smiled softly. He turned back to his friends. "He remembers. I'm honoured."

"Who is that?" Sansa whispered, but the Hound didn't answer her. His eyes were furious and unblinking, staring murder at the man in front of him.

The man looked at Sansa then. "And who's this pretty one? We didn't interrupt, did we?" He looked back at the Hound and smiled calmly.

One of the men in the shadows looked at them sitting there. "Clegane, how did a beast like you ever afford such a beauty as this? I heard that not even Baelish's _whores_ will have you. You have to go all the way down to _Flea Bottom _to get that ugly cock of yours wet."

Sandor Clegane was suddenly on his feet. The man Myr flinched back a step, but the other men behind him had stepped forward. The Hound wisely stopped; he was surrounded by fully armed men, and there was now a loaded arrow pointed at his head. He stood there furiously with clenched fists, unarmed but nevertheless looking terrifying. "Leave us alone and I might forget we ever met, Myr."

That made the man laugh good and hearty. "I think not, Clegane. A prize such as you, why that's almost as good as the Mountain himself. No, you're coming with us. Your fate lies with the Lord of Light now."


	5. Chapter 5

Their captors had Sandor Clegane tied to a tree and then bound tight with hempen rope at the wrists and ankles. Even then it was clear that every one of them still feared him. His eyes glistened furiously, looking as menacing as Sansa had ever seen them.

Only her wrists were tied, but the rope was rough and tight and it hurt her hands. Her palm throbbed painfully and it felt warmer than it should. _It's bleeding again. _What she wouldn't have given to dip her hand back into the cool creek water. But despite his being bound, Sansa didn't dare leave the Hound's side.

The men decided they would stay put for the night. They were tired from their travels and had made themselves comfortable around the fire. One of the men had smiled at the flames once they were settled in and Sandor was restrained. "Did you build this yourself, dog? Or does your pretty little whore take care of more than just the fire in your cock?" Sansa cringed. She silently slid closer to the Hound, hoping that if she stayed quiet enough they might soon forget she was there.

As the night grew late, one of the men, emboldened by drink and the Hound's constraints, approached them carefully. Sansa couldn't help but notice the wary caution in his steps. _He's terrified, even now. You can see it in his eyes._ But then even _she_ felt a little uneasy at the wild hatred burning in the Hound's glare. _He'll kill them all when this is done._ She'd already noticed him carefully studying every man, committing each one's face to memory.

The man stopped in front of Sandor and then brandished a rope from the hempen satchel slung across his shoulder. It only took a moment for Sansa to realise that it was more than just a piece of rope; it was a _noose,_ meant for hanging. "What are you doing?" she asked suddenly, breaking her silence. The sight of the noose frightened her more than the captors themselves. "Stop. Wait. _Please_!" Her heart thrummed madly in her chest. She watched helplessly as the man carefully placed the noose around the Hound's neck.

"Clegane, it sounds as though this whore actually _cares _about you," he said. His eyes locked onto hers and a careful smile crept on to his lips. "She _is _a pretty one, though. Real easy on the eyes." He laughed. His lusty gaze did not leave Sansa's face. "What are you doing with a thing like him, pretty? Dogs don't appreciate beauty, but I certainly do."

The Hound's eyes glowered furiously. "Any man lays a finger on her, I'll tear off his bloody cock."

That made the man laugh. "Oh, you will? No, I think not, dog. Your days are done. The crows'll be having your eyes soon enough."

"Here's a brave one. Are you listening, little bird?" Sandor looked at her for the first time since the outlaws had come upon them—for the first time since they had kissed. There was a piercing anger in his eyes, a look of bitter futility. "Taunts a man when he's bound and defenceless. And look, he's an archer at that." He spat on the man's boot. "Untie me, why don't you? Try stringing a noose around me _then_."

For a moment the man seemed almost shaken by the Hound's words, but his expression quickly changed to one of anger. "Watch it, dog."

"Dennett," called Thoros then. He waved the longbowman over.

Dennett stood up and kicked the Hound roughly. Then he glanced at Sansa. "I'm coming back for you, pretty."

Sansa watched him as he walked away, too frightened to speak. She was trembling everywhere. But the look in Sandor Clegane's eyes was even more terrifying than the archer's promise. _He can't help me,_ Sansa thought suddenly, _and he knows it._ "Don't let him touch me," she whispered anyway. "Please. We'll tell them who I am. They won't hurt me if they know me."

"Seven hells, do you know nothing of war and men? We don't know who they fight for."

She glanced at the ropes binding him tight. "Clearly not for the Lannister's."

He grimaced. "For the right price any man might turn you over to Joffrey. Is that a fate you wish to attempt?"

Sansa shuddered at the thought of returning to King's Landing. To Joffrey. "It's better than being raped," she finally said, her voice quiet and doubtful.

Thoros' head was turned their way. Sansa couldn't see his face, it was hidden in the shadows, but she could make out his shape and could catch the glimmer from his silver hair. _He's watching _me_,_ she thought, and then slid despairingly back against the Hound's side. "You, girl. Come here."

Sansa looked pleadingly to Sandor Clegane, but he was not watching her. His eyes were narrow and knife-like as he stared hard at Thoros Myr.

"Girl," said Thoros again, louder this time. "Come here. Some of my brothers have need of you. Fear not, we're decent men with enough coin to pay."

Sansa moved even closer to the Hound. He grimaced, but wouldn't look her in the eye.

"Seven hells," cursed Dennett from the shadows when she did not get up. The firelight had blinded Sansa and she couldn't make out any of their captors' faces. One of the shadows moved, and she recognised the outline of the longbow. He was coming her way.

"No, please," she said, pushing herself tight against the Hound and turning her face into his chest. She squeezed her eyes shut. "Please." She felt a hand grab her roughly on the shoulder, dragging her away. "No! Stop it, please. I'm not—"

"Dennett, easy," came Thoros' voice. "Let the girl get up at least."

Dennett stopped and reached down a hand for Sansa to take. Trembling everywhere, she accepted and allowed him to pull her to her feet. She winced at his touch, at the throb of pain it unleashed across her palm. Dennett stared at her. His eyes were empty pits of black against the shadows and flames, and she quickly turned away. Then she felt his hand clasp her around the arm and he pulled her roughly away from the campfire.

"No!" Sansa locked every limb in her body, but she was no match against the longbowman's strength and he near effortlessly dragged her along. "No, _stop_!" she shrieked. "You don't know who I am! I'm _not_ a whore!" Everyone stopped then, Dennett too, though his grip on her arm did not waver.

"The girl speaks true." The Hound's cold grating voice suddenly cut through the night. Sansa looked back into the camp, only barely able to make out his face through the darkness. He looked giant up against that tree, fierce even when bound. Her heart pounded as his head drooped in a gesture of defeat. "Leave her be, she's no whore."

"Who is she then? Speak the truth, Clegane. This is no game."

Sansa could feel the archer's hot breath against her neck. It made her shudder in revulsion to have him so near like this.

"She's my prisoner," said the Hound's shadow, "and a maiden at that. Highborn. I'm delivering her back to her family for a ransom."

"A highborn maiden?" Thoros scoffed doubtfully. "Aye, I think not. What in seven hells would any maiden be doing kissing _you_, highborn or not?" He looked over Sansa and then studied her face carefully. "Especially one so pretty as this. Unless she's hard of sight. Girl, are you blind, can you see?"

"She sees fine," the Hound snapped. Some of the men chuckled. Sansa wished she could _see_ their faces; she did not like listening to shadows whisper and laugh.

"Sees fine," Thoros repeated quietly to himself, slowly coming closer to where she and Dennett stood. "Highborn, are you? Tell me then, girl. What business does a_ lady _have kissing the Lannister dog?"

Sansa's cheeks were suddenly burning hot as flame; no proper lady had business kissing _any _man. It was shameful what she'd done, and yet... She could still feel the way Sandor Clegane's calloused lips had moved against hers, stiff and yet oddly gentle, like nothing she would have ever imagined. _His hand trembled when he touched my face. _She glanced his way. He was already watching her, but his face was in shadow so she could only make out the faint glistening of his scars and the solemn white of his eyes.

"The girl was only doing as she was bid," he resigned. Sansa's stomach tightened.

Thoros and Dennett looked at him; so did the other men, men she still could not see. "And what did you bid her to do?"

The Hound sniffed. "What do you think? A man has needs."

"You said she's a maiden."

"She is," said the Hound. "But she's got hands. And a mouth."

Thoros looked at her. "Is this the truth, girl? Speak true, he can't hurt you anymore."

Sansa looked at the ground. There was a lump in her throat; she didn't think she could speak even if she tried. She knew that her family would be ashamed of her, having kissed the Hound… but what about the shame _she_ suddenly felt, standing there and letting him tarnish his honour just to protect hers? "We only kissed," she said softly. "That's all."

"She's shaking," Dennett said. "Look at her, she's bloody terrified."

"Aye," the Hound agreed. "Do you see that hand of hers? That's what happened when she refused me. My dagger did that."

Dennett gently took her hands in his and cut the rope that bound them. "Seven hells," he whispered. Her dressing was stained dark and heavy and looked as damning as ever. "You're one sick dog, Clegane."

The Hound barked out a laugh. "_This_ from the man about to rape her."

Dennett suddenly released her. "I thought she was a whore."

"What whore ever begged to not be fucked?"

Thoros ignored them both. He was still staring at her. "Who are you, girl? Speak. You, _dog_, shut up."

There were tears in her eyes, stinging and hot, but she refused to let them fall. She could feel them watching her, Thoros and Dennett and the men in shadows… the Hound. Her voice came so soft and strangled that she hardly recognised it. "I am Lady... Sansa Stark of Winterfell."

"_Seven hells._ Lady Sansa?" She looked up in time to see a man emerge from the shadows. "It _is_ you. I thought you looked familiar but… Forgive me, my lady. It's just you look a woman now, and it's so dark, we're all very tired…" The man came into the light and then dropped to one knee, bowing his head.

"Harwin," she said softly, looking at her father's man in disbelief. Her heart began to pound again, but no longer out of fear. She looked at Thoros and Dennett and studied their faces anxiously. There was a swallow of relief inside of her that was almost too much to contain. "Are you _all_ my father's men?" she asked. Joy flooded inside of her. "You all fight for my brother now? Harwin, rise."

He rose, but there was a hesitation in his limbs. His eyes barely met hers. "Lady Sansa, you must understand…" There was something about his tone that suddenly broke her joy. An awful feeling found its way into her belly, though she did not know the reason. "Lord Eddard is dead," he said. She felt sad and empty inside, hearing her father's name like that. "And your brother Robb, he's a good man. My brothers and I, we mean him no ill harm."

"What brothers?"

Harwin swept his hand in an informal gesture of introduction. "The brothers you see here. We are the Brotherhood Without Banners, my lady. And we serve no lords and no king, only the smallfolk."

The sting of such an admission hurt more than any coarse jape the Hound had ever thrown her way. It was an insult to her house and her brother's cause, and worse, to her father's memory. Sansa looked away.

"My lady, you needn't be so troubled. Our leader is a just man. Surely Lord Beric will see you safely returned to your mother. That is what you want, is it not?"

Lord Beric? Sansa could not believe what she was hearing. Another one of her father's men turned, what… _outlaw?_ She felt ill. She said nothing.

"The Hound will be hanged for his crimes. Aye, Lord Beric will give Clegane a trial, but he will die nonetheless. He won't hurt you again."

Sansa's chest suddenly went very tight. "Please… I would see no harm come to him. He didn't hurt me."

"My lady? The man violated you."

"He saved my life. I would be dead now, were it not for his bravery."

Harwin looked over to where the Hound sat, and he spat. "Bravery! Stealing away a lady and then defiling her innocence? I should have his head now for that alone. Such a beast deserves no trial." He suddenly unsheathed his sword.

"_Harwin_," Thoros said firmly. "We'll see the dog to Lord Beric. Fear not, the Lord of Light will see justice done. For his part in Lannister crimes he could very well meet his end in the crow cages. A fitting fate for a dog, wouldn't you say? Before too long he will be begging for the noose." Thoros laughed. And they spoke no more about it.

Sansa slept fitfully that night. She kept dreaming awful dreams and would wake up startled and sweating and unable to remember what had scared her so. At one point she got up and started towards the other side of the camp.

The man whose watch it was spoke softly from the shadows. "What are you doing, m'lady?"

She gestured towards the tree where the Hound sat bound and tied. "He needs water," she said. But the man would not let her take another step; he took the wineskin from her and brought the Hound the water himself. Sansa sat huddled by the fire and tried unsuccessfully to will away the heavy ache of loneliness she felt.

They set out at first light the next day. When one of the brothers reached for Stranger's reins, the warhorse whinnied and reared wildly. Another brother tried to calm the horse, but Stranger made to kick him instead.

"The horse is a wild thing," Dennett declared angrily, helping his kicked brother back onto his feet. "Let's cut his throat and be done with it."

"No!" Sansa protested suddenly. They all looked at her, the Hound too. "He's a good horse," she lied, "he's just nervous." _And perhaps misunderstood,_ she thought glumly, _like his master. _

"Clegane, get that bloody beast to settle down or we'll be feasting on his meat tonight."

Bound at the wrists and with rope tied tight around his arms, the Hound stumbled over to Stranger. Sansa watched him talking quietly to his horse, wishing she could hear what he was saying. Whatever it was, it eventually worked. Stranger snuffed softly and then obediently lowered his head.

"Help him onto his horse," Thoros told two of the men once Stranger had been calmed.

"Give him a horse?" one of them replied.

"He'll ride off," said the other.

"Not if he's smart he won't."

Sitting atop her Silver, Sansa watched as the two men struggled to hoist a bound Sandor Clegane up onto Stranger's back. The black warhorse snorted moodily. The Brotherhood had also slipped a dirty hood over top of the Hound's head. Dennett laughed when he saw it. "There's an improvement for you, dog!"

Sansa frowned, and then followed the small caravan as they left the camp.

The brothers talked and laughed as they rode, but Sansa tried to ignore them for the most part. Harwin rode beside her and attempted a little polite chatter. She answered him shortly until he eventually abandoned his attempts at conversation. His betrayal still stung, and she did not wish for his company. The Hound rode behind her, not once saying a word.

They travelled day after day, only stopping at night to make camp in the woods and to sup and drink. Each day was the same as the one that came before it. Every night the hood was removed from the Hound's head, and every night the Brotherhood had him tied to a tree. They also redressed her palm for her, and even rubbed a thick ointment into her wound to help it heal. Sansa couldn't help remembering the Hound's gentleness when he had treated her hand. It made her very sad to think about it. She even found herself missing his surly company. The Brotherhood expected her to stay away from him, though, and so she did. But from time to time, as they sat around the fire, she would glance his way in hopes that he would look back at her. He never did.

"Where are we going?" Sansa asked one day after what seemed like a fortnight of travelling. Her question surprised Harwin; she had long since given up speaking to anyone, preferring to stay as silent as the Hound.

"To our headquarters," Harwin said, "and the Lightning Lord. The king's dog will meet his death, and then likely we'll ransom you to your lady mother. How does that sound, my lady?"

She nervously stared off at the distant horizon. How could she convince the Brotherhood not to put the Hound to trial? Listening to the way they spoke about Sandor Clegane and all of his crimes, the prospect of having him set free seemed more unlikely with each passing day. _And if anyone is to collect the ransom from my mother, it shouldn't be the Brotherhood..._ After all, it was the Hound who'd risked his life to rescue her. Sansa said nothing.

They arrived one evening at the gates of a newly-walled town. "Stoney Sept," Harwin told her as the captain at the gates let them inside. They rode through the town, which looked to be recently ravaged and burned. "Your father once won a great battle here." He went on to try and tell her about it, but Sansa wasn't listening to him. Her attention turned to the town's square. In the centre of it stood a large fountain with a leaping trout; from its mouth shot a string of water, landing in a shallow pool. Women were filling pails there. But what really caught Sansa's attention were the crows cages dangling from a line of creaky wooden posts. Her heart caught in her throat. _There's men inside those cages._ It was a horrifying sight. Some of the cages even held _dead_ men.

"Gods," whispered Harwin beside her. "Some of these are northmen." Sansa quickly glanced over at him. _Robb's men._ She felt a swallow of fear for her brother, her last _true_ brother.

"Water," one of the men croaked as they went past.

"Keep going, my lady," Harwin told her. "Keep your eyes straight ahead." Sansa did just that, and for the first time all journey she was envious of the hood covering the Hound's head.

Thoros led them to an inn with whitewashed walls. _The windows are all broken,_ Sansa thought, though she was glad all the same that she would have a roof over her head once more. The last time she'd slept indoors had felt like ages ago, and even then, she'd hardly slept a wink. Only once they were inside and seated at a table did Thoros allow for the hood to be torn from the Hound's head. His face twisted angrily against the sudden glare of light.

The Brotherhood seemed at home in this place, but Sansa felt increasingly uncomfortable sitting in the common room. It didn't take her long to realise that it was no inn, but a brothel. There were serving wenches roaming the room, sitting and giggling in the laps of drunken men. She blushed and stared down at the untouched cup of ale in front of her.

One by one the men of the Brotherhood disappeared with women. Sansa grew increasingly anxious as their table emptied. At last it was just herself, Thoros and the Hound sitting down. _Maybe we could escape,_ she thought, although she didn't believe it actually possible. The captain would never let them through the gates; they would be caught for certain. The looks of those cages had terrified her. These weren't people to defy.

Thoros smiled at her. "You didn't think I'd be leaving too, did you, my lady?" He laughed and took a hearty swallow of ale. Sansa glanced at the Hound, feeling abashed. His eyes glinted angrily and his mouth twitched, but it wasn't her he was looking at.

At last Thoros put down his mug of ale and stood up from the table. "Get up, dog," he told the Hound. "My lady," he said, much more kindly to Sansa. "I've got us a room." He grabbed the Hound and pushed him in front of him, directing them up a rickety narrow staircase. There were moans of pleasure echoing into the hallways from behind the closed doors. Sansa blushed. She suddenly thought about kissing the Hound, and the moment when his tongue had tentatively touched hers for the first time. A warm shiver coursed through her.

They reached their room. Thoros shoved Sandor roughly inside. There was a bed that looked big enough for a family of eight. Thoros grabbed the Hound and went to tie him to a chair in the corner of the room. "No," Sansa said suddenly. He stopped and looked at her. "Why shouldn't he sleep on the bed as well? It's big enough."

Thoros' eyes seemed to narrow for a moment. He looked between her and the Hound. "Is this a jape? Why is his comfort a concern of yours, a man who defiled you?" Sandor was watching her closely and wearing an unreadable grimace.

"My father raised me with honour," she said with all the properness she could summon. It was a lady-like response, one that rolled unthinkingly off of her tongue. If her poor father only knew the girl she was truly, kissing someone like the Hound. _And liking it,_ she thought shamefully. _I might even let him kiss me again._ For a quick moment she nervously wondered if they would ever even have the chance.

"Honour!" Thoros laughed. "Honour has nothing to do with it, my lady. Do you truly know this man, or are you so blinded by the _gallantry_ of being rescued? I have known and even loved a few girls like you, my lady. Dreamers, the lot of you. Well, let me tell you about men like your dog here. This one cares naught for you, he's a coldblooded murderer, and as terrible as they come."

_Murderer_. Sansa ignored the weight of the Hound's stare and looked at Thoros instead. "I know more of him than you," she said lamely, her voice having gone soft and meek. Sansa had only ever kissed two people, but she liked to think she'd at least learned _something_ from them. _You can tell a lot about a person through their kiss._ With Joffrey it had always felt forced and cold, never real, but with the Hound… She shuddered and kept her mouth shut.

In the end Thoros did allow Sandor Clegane to sleep on the bed, but not before tying his hands to a bedpost. It surprised her when he then did the same to her. "You'll have to excuse me, my lady, but you are still our prisoner." He smiled at her before extinguishing the lamp.

Sansa lay awake for quite some time. Thoros was between her and the Hound, and she tried to listen past his breathing to see if she could hear Sandor. She couldn't. _Is he mad at me? _she wondered. _Does he understand there's nothing I can do to help him? We're equally as helpless._ Her palm throbbed dully. When she finally fell asleep it was with the memory of his face as he carefully wrapped up her hand.

The following morning they rode out early. "Sorry, my lady," Harwin apologised as he slipped a hood over her head, "but we can't allow anyone to know the location of our headquarters." Her world became darkness. She clutched her saddle horn nervously as Silver followed the Brotherhood's procession. There was an uneasy feeling in her stomach that would not subside.

Not being able to see anything, the day was painstakingly slow. At long last someone said, "We're here, my lady." The air seemed to change. It was cooler somehow, and maybe damper too. They stopped and a pair of strong arms gently lifted her down from Silver's back. Then the hood was pulled from her head.

A huge stone firepit had been dug out in the centre of an earthen floor; Sansa realised they were inside some sort of cave. There were tunnels, deep dark openings that seemed to branch out every which way. The Hound stood beside her, his mouth twitching as he took in their whereabouts. He momentarily glanced her way, and Sansa was certain he felt just as uneasy as she did.

There were huge white roots winding up the walls, and people slowly began to emerge from behind them to have a look at the prisoners. Sansa stepped closer to the Hound and lowered her eyes to the floor.

"Who's this here?" she heard Thoros ask.

A man stepped forward and Sansa took a careful glance at him. He looked like a soldier, fierce and frightening, and he wore a lemon-yellow cloak around his shoulders. A boy stood next to him, who looked to be of an age with her; he was handsome, with dark black hair and strong arms and eyes much older than his face. "This here is Gendry," the yellow-cloaked man said. "He's a blacksmith. Liked what the Brotherhood stood for and decided to join us."

"Is that so?"

The boy Gendry nodded, stealing a quick glance at Sansa as he did so. She blushed and looked away.

"Was travelling with his little sister when we found them, but that one rode off on us in the night. What a wild thing she was."

"She was scared," Gendry said.

"Aye, well, if we'd had Harwin here with us, might be we could've rode her down for you. Alas." The yellow-cloaked man shrugged and looked at Sansa. "And who's this here pretty one?"

"Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell," said Thoros. "We found her alone with _this_ one, and just in time, I'd say." She could feel Gendry's eyes on her, and she did not like it. Sansa forced herself to ignore him.

"A Stark?" A small man with thinning hair and a sharp pointing nose stepped out of the shadows and into the light. He looked Sansa over and then smiled. "Oh, there is a song in this."

"Not now, Tom," said Thoros just as another man came into view. "Lord Beric. Look who we've brought along with the Stark girl."

Sansa looked at her father's man, but in no way did he resemble the handsome lord she remembered. For a moment she even doubted that it _was_ Beric Dondarrion. _He looks so sickly._ _He looks like death. _One of his eyes was missing, and the flesh in and around the empty socket was wrinkled and scarred. He stared at the Hound, who stared right back. "Dondarrion," Sandor Clegane snorted derisively, "I heard my brother killed you."

"The Lightning Lord cannot be killed," said Thoros.

The Hound laughed. "Is that so? Give me a sword and I'll see it done right."

Beric Dondarrion did not smile, nor did anyone else. Sansa shivered at the angry way they all looked at the Hound. _They mean to kill him,_ she thought suddenly, _and they mean to do it today._ A feeling of helplessness sunk heavy inside of her.

"Spoken like a true murderer," Thoros said softly.

"Murderer?" The Hound spat. "Who did I murder?"

And then came the names. Names, more names than Sansa ever wished to hear, even some she had known, were suddenly being called out, one after another, piling up higher and higher like a late summer snow. Names of the dead. The count grew until finally the Hound cut them off.

"_Enough_." His eyes glistened furiously. "These names mean nothing to me. Who were they?"

Lord Beric answered him, his voice calm and yet firm, and Sansa felt herself trembling as he spoke. They were all people, young and old, great and small. "All dead," the Lightning Lord said, "and all on the swords and spears of Lannisters."

"Lannister swords, not mine."

"You serve the Lannisters," Thoros said.

"I did," the Hound said angrily. "Not anymore. Are we all guilty of the crimes of others?"

Some of the men of the Brotherhood started shouting then, and Sansa flinched at the anger in their voices. They wanted blood, _his_ blood, and they meant to have it. Suddenly Gendry stepped forward. "This one _is_ a murderer," he said. "I know it true."

"Who's this, now?" The Hound stared at the blacksmith, his face tight with anger. "I've never seen you in my life, boy, yet you label me a murderer." He spat.

Gendry glanced at the man in the yellow cloak. "Ser, my sister… the girl who rode off. She wasn't my sister." He stared down at the earthen floor, looking shamed. "I never told anyone who she was, not truly. I was only protecting her. We're friends." He nervously rubbed the back of his neck.

"Continue," said Beric Dondarrion calmly.

Suddenly Gendry's eyes found Sansa's. "She was _this one's_ sister, m'lord. Lady Arya of Winterfell."

Sansa felt her heart hammer inside of her chest. "Arya? She's alive?"

"She was the last I saw of her, m'lady. That was days ago now though. We were going to Riverrun, to your lady mother when the Brotherhood found us."

Sansa couldn't believe what she was hearing. She felt nearly faint with relief. Next to her the Hound stiffened.

"You label this man a murderer," said Lord Beric.

"I do," Gendry said, "and he is. Lady Sansa will confirm what I'm about to tell you. M'lady, your sister told me all about your family. She told me about her friend the butcher's boy, and how you, _dog_, rode him down and near cut him in half. A boy who didn't even have a sword to defend himself! His body was wrapped up and given to his father, who thought it was a bloodied pig."

Sansa felt a wave of nausea course through her stomach. She looked to the floor and said nothing.

"Lady Sansa," said Thoros, "can you verify this accusation?"

She shook her head softly, barely able to find words enough to speak. "I… I don't remember what happened."

"She's lying!" Gendry said, suddenly angry. "Arry told me how you always lie!"

"Enough," said Lord Beric. "Clegane, do _you_ deny this accusation?"

The Hound shrugged. "I was the prince's sworn shield. It's not my place to question royal orders. The boy attacked Joffrey. My lady here told the same story when she stood before Robert."

"Is this true, Lady Sansa?"

She was trembling. She didn't know how to respond. _Yes or no, which answer will keep him alive? _"I don't remember."

Thoros pulled Lord Beric aside, and the two conversed quietly with each other for a few moments. She could feel the blacksmith's eyes on her, an accusing stare that made her feel deeply ashamed.

Finally Beric Dondarrion turned back and faced the Hound. "No one here knows either the truth or falsehood of the murder charge, so it is not for us to judge you. You can only be judged now by the Lord of Light. I sentence you to trial by battle. Prove your innocence with a blade and you shall be free to go."

At first the Hound just frowned. And then he started to laugh. It was a long rasping laugh filled with contempt, and it echoed wildly off the walls of the cave. "So who will it be? Who's so brave now? You, archer? The one who tied this bloody noose around my neck. No? _Ha!_ I thought not."

"Silence, Clegane." Lord Beric stepped forward. "It's me you'll be facing."

One of the men came forward and sliced the ropes binding the Hound. He rubbed his bloodied wrists together. "I'll need sword and armour."

Lord Beric shook his head. "A sword you shall have, but your innocence must be your armour."

Sansa felt her heart sink. She heard Thoros' voice over and over again in her head. _He can't be killed. _

"My innocence against your breastplate, is that it?" The Hound spat. Lord Beric immediately had his squire remove his breastplate, and then all the layers he had on underneath. Sansa shivered when she saw his skin and the terrible crater of a scar just above his left nipple. When he turned around, the same scar was upon his back. Her eyes went wide. _It's true, he cannot be killed._ She immediately looked to see if Sandor Clegane had noticed it too. He had. His mouth went tight.

The Hound was given his sword and shield. He stood there waiting while the Brotherhood prayed to the Lord of Light. His eyes slowly wandered across the cave, and then finally came to rest on Sansa's face. _Is he scared?_ she wondered. She felt terrified. _There's no way I can watch._ She said a silent prayer for him, hoping the gods could hear her all the way down here beneath the earth. Only when the Brotherhood was through with praying did the Hound's eyes leave hers. "I hope your god's just," he said angrily to Beric Dondarrion. "You're about to meet him."

The Lightning Lord said nothing. Sansa watched as he slowly brought his sword down to his palm. Blood gushed out as he slowly drew the blade across his skin. Her own palm winced at the sight of it. And then a moment later, his blade took fire.

The Hound's face went tight with anger. "Burn in seven hells." Then he charged, and Sansa looked away.


	6. Chapter 6

The clanging of swords pealed loudly, the echoes of steel on steel ringing off the dark walls of the hollow. Flames were dancing everywhere, their light being cast from a score of torches and the pit of fire in the centre of the cave. But it was Beric Dondarrion's flaming sword which burned brightest of all.

Lord Beric was as quick with a blade as he was on his feet. His strikes came so fast that Sansa sometimes had trouble following the blistering speed of the duel. It was impossible to look away. With every attack her heart seemed to stop, and with every block it began to beat again. Back and forth it went. She was the only person present who did not wish to see Sandor Clegane's blood spill.

The Hound's brow was coated in a thick sheen of sweat. His scars were black and glistening against the flames, and his eyes looked wild and white. If he was frightened by Dondarrion's speed, he showed no sign of it. His face was hard and determined and every move he made was deliberate and sharp. For such a large man he moved with remarkable speed. Sansa watched him in awe while her heart leaped madly inside her chest; she hated to admit it, but as impressive as the Hound was, Beric Dondarrion was better. He was well rested and, if what Thoros of Myr had said was true, he had nothing to fear in the face of death. She was sick with dread.

But with every moment that passed the Hound's energy waned. It wasn't fair, she knew, this trial by combat. He was in no shape to fight; clearly the journey had taken its toll on him. An entire fortnight of travel and the Hound had been bound and blinded and near starved to death for all of it. _And now this! _Sansa had seen him in a real fight before, the day he'd saved Ser Loras from the Mountain's ruthless temper; then he'd been powerful and precise. _And he fought honourably, too. _She hadn't forgotten the way he'd avoided his brother's head during the hate-filled duel. Now, however, Sansa noticed him already tiring. His blocks were clumsy and slow, and he didn't have the energy to counter the Lightning Lord's attacks.

Lord Beric backed the Hound up against the blazing hot firepit. It was burning bright and was just as ferocious as Dondarrion's flaming blade. When he realised what was at his back, Sandor Clegane angrily cursed and lunged at Dondarrion. Sansa let out a breathless sigh of relief, but the reprieve of the Hound's counterattack did not last long. Beric Dondarrion quickly parried and then riposted. A sinking ache hardened inside her stomach. Dondarrion's flaming blade came down swiftly and caught the painted yellow wood of Clegane's heavy oaken shield.

Another swift attack was only barely thwarted by the Hound's shield. The wood of the shield splintered and cracked against the strength of the blow. Dondarrion was striking for the kill with every cut: the head, the heart, the neck. Sansa crumpled the wool of her dress within a tightly clenched fist.

The Hound's breathing was ragged and rasping. His blocks were haggard and slow, and his attacks were ugly. Each one was effortlessly stopped by Dondarrion. The Brotherhood watched on eagerly, and they soon started an excited chant of _Finish him, finish him, finish him! _Sansa wanted to scream at them all to shut up. _Can't they see how unfair this is_?

Gendry the blacksmith stepped up beside her, watching the fight with bated breath. "He's going to lose," he said in a whisper of awe. "Lord Beric has him."

Sansa didn't dare pry her eyes away from the fight. "He won't lose," she replied without even a glance his way. _He can't_ _lose,_ she added anxiously to herself.

Her stomach was knotted tight. She wanted to cry, she wanted to scream, she wanted to do _something_ to help the Hound win this losing battle. He'd once told her that he would die for her, and at the time Sansa had thought it the most wonderful thing she'd ever heard. Now that he was looking death in the eye, however, such words seemed neither romantic nor sweet. _Death is real, death is the end. And one of them is going to die very soon. _Sansa couldn't bring herself to admit that the Hound looked more likely to fall than did his opponent.

The Hound grunted angrily as the flaming sword once again struck the corner of his splintering shield; the wood suddenly caught fire, and the Hound responded with an indignant shout of revulsion. Sansa watched in open-mouthed horror as the Hound struggled to hack the burning shield from his arm, his eyes wide with fright as the flames licked the linen of his blouse. Beric Dondarrion lunged at him, and the Hound managed to dodge the attack while at the same time slashing desperately at his shield.

"His blouse is on fire," Gendry said in awe, as though she hadn't noticed. "Look, his arm is starting to burn!" The Hound's eyes were wild with panic. A strange croaking noise caught in his throat as blocks of his shield crumbled off his forearm. His blouse was still on fire, the flames creeping up his arm towards his neck. The Hound let out a painful moan so agonising and horrible that it hardly seemed human. Sansa thought she could smell his skin searing off beneath the tatters of his blouse. She squeezed her eyes shut tight and stifled a deep horrified sob.

"Get him!" someone shouted then. "He's done!"

"Finish him!" shouted someone else.

Sansa wiped away her tears and looked up again in time to see Beric Dondarrion going in for the final blow. "No!" she screamed. The Hound barely managed to dash out of the way. Dondarrion struck again, and the Hound parried clumsily. A strangled cry escaped him as he tried to shake out the fire burning his flesh. Dondarrion lunged forward again. The Hound once more averted the attack.

"Finish him!"

"He's done for! Kill him!"

"Justice!"

Sansa's eyes swept desperately over the unfamiliar faces who wanted nothing more than to see Sandor Clegane dead. _It's not fair, it's blood they're lusting after, not justice! _Was she the only one who saw a man beneath the hideous scars? She watched through burning tears as the flames began to kiss his neck. _He's dying,_ Sansa thought helplessly,_ Lord Beric's going to kill him._ He cried out desperately, his eyes filled with fright as he blocked another blow. He stumbled away from another attack. Even Sansa could see how little fight was left in him.

"Get him!" The shouts kept coming.

"Kill him!"

"Finish him, finish him!"

The shouts were all she could hear now. Every word was like an anchor, and the Hound seemed to move slower with each one. _He can't die, not here, not now. _Sansa looked about frantically, but there was no help to be had. The Hound was on his own. _I'm all he has,_ she thought, _and there's nothing I can do. _But then, amidst the shouts of others, Sansa suddenly found her voice. "Sandor!" she shrieked. His name felt strange coming off her tongue, like a foreign word whose meaning she didn't quite understand. A sob caught in her throat immediately thereafter, and it strangled her back into silence.

Lord Beric raged forth with yet another attack and the Hound floundered in his defence. Dondarrion lifted his sword to deliver the final blow. His large hulking body now leaden and limp, the Hound looked every bit defeated. Dread swarmed inside Sansa's stomach. _He's going to lose, it's over… _She watched in horror as the flaming blade came down hard.

The Hound _somehow_ managed to dodge the blow and Lord Beric staggered at the missed attack, momentarily caught off balance. Suddenly the Hound lunged at him. He delivered a hard swing and now it was Dondarrion who stumbled. Sansa wrung the wool of her dress tight between her fingers and held her breath. With all the energy he had left in him, the Hound swung his sword hard. Beric blocked the attack, but the strength of the blow had been enough to knock his arm off balance.

Sansa didn't even have time to blink. A quick moment was all it took. The Hound's blade came crashing down again, and this time it cut through Dondarrion's shoulder, sinking all the way down to his heart. She covered her mouth, watching in shock as the Lightning Lord slunk lifelessly down to his knees.

The Hound immediately dropped to the ground and rolled in the dirt to smother the flames melting through his arm. The cave fell into a stunned silence. Beric Dondarrion's body lay lifeless and bloody.

Thoros was the first to move. He was surprisingly calm. "Lem, help me with Lord Beric."

The Hound suddenly went still, curling up in the dirt, and having extinguished the flames that had burned him. His entire body shuddered softly. Sansa realised he was sobbing. "Please," he moaned, cradling his arm, "someone help me. I'm burned. Somebody. My arm... _Please._" Too horrified to move, Sansa stared at him in shock.

Thoros and the man in the yellow cloak were gently lifting Dondarrion's body up. The red priest glanced at the Hound. "Tom, help him to his feet. Have Melly tend to his burns."

"Help him?" the man Tom replied, hardly able to believe it. "But he's a murderer. You heard the smith."

"Aye," agreed the man in the lemon-coloured cloak, "and it'd be a mercy to just kill him. Look at him there."

"He deserves to die," chimed another man. "He's sobbing like a wee baby. Thoros, we would be doing him a justice."

"No," said the red priest sharply. "He won his freedom and his life. Now, Tom, help him and find Melly." He and the yellow-cloaked man proceeded to carry Lord Beric's body towards one of the darkened tunnels.

Tom went to the Hound and reached down to help him to his feet. A long loose strip of burned flesh sluiced slowly away from his arm. "Gods," whispered Tom in revulsion. The Hound's knees buckled and he collapsed back to the ground, breathless and shuddering.

Eventually Tom led the Hound to a small corner of the cave, and then he wandered off to find the woman who was to tend to the burns. Sansa went slowly over to Sandor Clegane. She knelt down beside him and started to reach a trembling hand his way, but quickly stopped herself when she saw just how terrible his burns were. A cry of alarm escaped her. From his wrist all the way up to his neck his skin had been seared away; even parts of his ribs had burned and were blistering. Clumps of melted flesh were slithering slowly down the bloodied mess of his arm. Sansa clasped her hands over her mouth to stifle a sob.

"Little bird," he rasped weakly. Cradling his arm, his whole body trembled. Lines of tears streaked the dirt on his face.

Sansa stared at him, too horrified to move or speak. The scars on his face didn't look half as terrible as the raw bloody flesh now running down his arm and neck. She thought she might cry. _His arm… his face_… His entire left side was a hideous mess, almost too ghastly to look at. Sansa wanted to do something more than just crouch there beside him, but she wasn't sure she could bring herself to touch him now. Never in her life had she seen anything so pitiable. Suddenly she saw a small boy screaming futilely while the flesh melted away from his face. "It will be okay," she whispered finally, her voice trembling so terribly she hardly recognised it.

"Step away, child," said a woman then. "Give us some space."

Sansa left the woman alone so she could tend to the Hound. A part of her felt grateful that she didn't have to look at him anymore. Ashamed of herself for that, she went and sat down on the other side of the cave.

The air felt thin and heavy, and it was almost difficult to breathe. A deep ache was inside of her chest. Sansa tried to remember back to a time when something good had happened in her life, but the effort was in vain and she soon gave up. She thought about kissing the Hound, and for a quick moment her heart even swirled. But then she thought about the burned flesh sliding off his arm and she felt sick.

"Pardon me, m'lady. Might I sit with you?"

The voice startled her. Sansa quickly turned and found the blacksmith standing beside her. She nodded absently and then turned her attention back to the Hound.

Gendry sat down next to her and followed her eyes across the cave. "That was quite the duel," he said.

"Hmm."

"M'lady? Can I ask you something?"

"What is it?" she asked, more snappishly than she'd intended.

"Well, I don't mean to pry, m'lady, but I can't figure out why didn't you want to see him die."

"Pardon?" She looked at the smith. He had a kind face and very blue eyes. His hair looked charcoal black in the dim light of the hollow. But Sansa did not much care for his forwardness.

Gendry nodded in the Hound's direction. "I heard you call his name. His real name. I'm just wondering why, m'lady. He deserves death, that one."

"And what do you know of it?"

"I know what your sister told me."

"Arya's a _child_. She knows naught of such matters." From across the cave the woman was slowly peeling away some loose pieces of the Hound's flesh; he grit his teeth and turned away. A wave of nausea swept through Sansa's stomach. She looked at the blacksmith instead.

"Arry may be a child, but she's old enough to understand murder, m'lady." Gendry was watching her closely. "Why did you lie for him? Especially after what he did to that poor butcher's boy."

"I didn't lie," she said. "I don't remember what happened. It was a long time ago. And not that it concerns you in the least, but I didn't want to see him die because he's a friend of mine."

"A friend, m'lady? _Him?_"

"Yes," she snapped impatiently. "Perhaps even a good friend. He rescued me from King's Landing during the Battle of the Blackwater. Ever since then he's taken good care of me." Even Sansa had to momentarily wonder about the truth of her words. Despite having kissed him, she hadn't forgotten Sandor Clegane's cutting insults or cruel japes. _More often than not he's been impudent and ill-mannered,_ she told herself. _But his kiss was tender and sweet. And_ _he saved me as well. That is what's most important. _She glanced at Gendry. He looked too young to be a smith. _Probably just an apprentice,_ she thought dismissively, turning her gaze back to the Hound again. _Just the sort of boy Arya would befriend. _

Gendry was nodding thoughtfully beside her. "I think I understand. It was the same with your sister. She saved me, took care of me." He chuckled. "Little Arry."

"Arya." Sansa glanced at him again. He was a heavily-muscled boy, and tall for his age. "Shouldn't it have been the other way around, you caring for her?"

He laughed. "It should've been, m'lady, you're right. But you know your sister." His eyes sparkled when he smiled. _He's quite handsome, _Sansa couldn't help but notice at that moment. _For a smith._

"I do know Arya," she said, smiling softly in spite of everything. _Arya was just recently with this boy, we'd been so close to finding each other. _And now who could say where she was. Sansa longed to see someone from her family again, even if it _was _her sister. "How was she? Before she rode off, I mean. I haven't seen her since... since before our father..." She trailed off, knowing there was no reason to continue; by now everyone in the realm knew of Eddard Stark's untimely fate.

Gendry nodded sympathetically, and he looked truly sorry at the mention of her father. Although he had a warrior's build, he had a very gentle way about him. _And his face is oddly familiar somehow_. "She was feisty, m'lady" the blacksmith replied, "and fierce too. Lem wasn't lying when he said she was wild."

_Wild._ That sounded so much like Arya. Sansa smiled sadly. "Where do you think she might have ridden off to? You said she was scared when the Brotherhood found you."

"Aye, but fear drove her, m'lady, so you needn't look so sad. As to where she was headed, I'd wager she was riding for Riverrun. To your lady mother. That's where we were going before the Brotherhood came upon us."

"Riverrun? So you were going to take a reward once you got there… Some gold, mayhaps?"

Gendry chuckled. "No, m'lady. Arry's my friend. I'd not have accepted gold for seeing her safely to where she belongs. But she _did_ hint at a future for me with your family, one better than anything I ever had in King's Landing. I won't sit here and tell you the prospect wasn't enticing."

Sansa looked back at the Hound, whose eyes were downcast and veiled in shadow. His dark hair fell in long ragged strands around the scars marring his face. The woman tending to him was applying a thick-looking jelly to his seared skin, and he winced at the contact, his mouth twisting as the ointment settled into his burns. _He didn't want gold either._ Her stomach swirled nervously; it was a different prize the Hound sought.

Gendry was watching her. "I also came from King's Landing," he told her. "Did m'lady know that? I apprenticed in a smithy there. I even met your lord father. Lord Eddard Stark. He was a good man, and honest too. It was truly a tragedy what befell him, m'lady."

Hearing her father's name spoken aloud made Sansa feel numb. Numb and angry. _I wish Joffrey were dead,_ she thought suddenly. _Not just Joffrey_; she wanted _all _of the Lannister's dead. Such dark thoughts now followed her to sleep at night, and they ruled her dreams. "It was," she mumbled in agreement, hoping Gendry would speak no more of her father.

He didn't, and was even astute enough to change the subject. "I was on my way to the Wall when I met Arry. I mean _Lady Arya. _Pardon my insolence, m'lady, but it's queer to think of your sister as a lady."

Sansa looked at him again and had to smile slightly when she saw the teasing sparkle in his eyes. "I often had a hard time of it, too," she said. "Arya never much cared for being a lady. She always preferred playing at swords and exploring outside to sewing and singing."

"That much was obvious about Arry. We all believed her a boy at first. She was disguised as one, and played the part perfectly."

She raised her eyebrows. "A boy?"

"Aye." Gendry sniggered. He made no attempt to conceal the affection in his warm laughter. _He's pleasant to chat with, _she noted, very grateful for the distraction. "Your sister was Arry of Flea Bottom to us, a filthy little orphan boy. Yoren - he was from the Nights Watch - chopped all of her hair off before we left the city. Gods, what a sorry thing she looked."

Sansa tried to imagine Arya posing as an orphan boy. She tittered at the thought of it. _I'd almost forgotten how nice it is to laugh._ She had forgotten about far too many good things. "It's such a relief to know my sister's alive and well."

"That one can take care of herself, m'lady. You needn't worry about her."

She smiled at his kind words, feeling reassured for the first time in what felt like ages. "Thank you," she said. "Hearing that brings me great comfort." Gendry nodded at her, looking pleased. Still smiling, Sansa turned her attention back to the Hound. His arm in the process of being wrapped in cloth, he was already watching her. There was a look in his eyes that almost took the wind out her. She immediately forgot what it was she'd been smiling about.

"M'lady? What is it?" Gendry followed her eyes across the cave. "Oh," he said softly, answering his own question.

When Sandor momentarily glanced at the young blacksmith, his face tightened in anger. He looked back at Sansa, his gaze hard and wary. His mouth twitched for a moment. Something deeper than anger filled the cold grey of his eyes. It wasn't the first time Sansa had seen that look. _The night when he tried to kiss me, _she remembered suddenly, _when I turned away from him._

Sansa was right about to excuse herself when a familiar figure suddenly stepped out of one of the tunnels. She stopped and gasped in disbelief. Beside her Gendry whispered a prayer. It was Beric Dondarrion, and he was _alive_.

With his arm now wrapped in cloth, the Hound glanced toward the man he'd only moments ago slain. He slid back against a rock. "Gods, what sorcery is this?" There was anger mixed with disbelief in his voice.

Lord Beric now moved slower than he had before the Hound had killed him. _A walking scarecrow,_ Sansa thought, unable to pry her eyes away as he stepped into the light. "Fear not, Clegane," he said in a voice so weak Sansa could barely hear him, "you needn't cower so. You won your life."

"And you lost yours," the Hound said, his eyes darting angrily between Dondarrion and Thoros.

"The Lord of Light restored him to good health," said the red priest.

The Hound laughed roughly. "Is _that_ what your bloody fire god considers good health?" he asked, nodding Dondarrion's way. "Bugger this," he rasped, pushing himself up from the ground and staggering back to his feet. "I'm not wasting another moment here in this bloody cave. Give me what's mine and I'll be gone."

"Aye," agreed Dondarrion softly, "that you will. Tom, Lem, Harwin? Get him on his horse and ride him out. Make sure he doesn't try to follow you back."

"Don't flatter yourself," growled the Hound. "I'll count us both lucky if we never meet again, Dondarrion. Now where's my gold?"

Lord Beric smiled. "It's our gold now."

The Hound stiffened. "You bloody shits. You're robbing me." His eyes snaked angrily between Thoros and Lord Beric.

"We're _borrowing _from you," corrected Dondarrion. "Consider it a loan... for the greater good of the realm."

Sandor spat angrily. "Bugger the realm," he said, "and bugger you. I want my bloody gold."

"You'll have your gold after the war," said Thoros. He brandished a slip of paper from his sleeve and held it out to the Hound.

"What in seven hells am I supposed to do with this?"

"It's so you can collect your gold when the war's over."

The Hound's mouth was taut with anger. "Thieves," he growled. "You call yourselves knights, aye, but you're nothing but bloody thieves. You've got about as much honour as knights, though, I'll give you that."

"There is no honour in war, Clegane," said Lord Beric.

"Spoken like a knight, too." Sandor glared at each of the different members of the Brotherhood, from the Lightning Lord right down to Gendry. Sansa felt a swirl of uneasiness in her belly.

"Your sword will be returned to you after you've been escorted to a location away from here," said Lord Beric.

"Thieves _and _cravens," rasped the Hound angrily. "Gods, you're the sorriest bunch of outlaws I ever saw."

"Lem," called Lord Beric, and the man in the yellow cloak stepped forward. "Throw the hood back over his head and take him away. Ride him out a good distance before you set him free."

The Hound snorted in disgust. "You talk as though I'd want to come back to this hell cave."

"We have your gold," Lord Beric reminded him, "so you very well might."

Sandor spat again. "Next time I kill you, Dondarrion, your fire lord won't be so merciful."

"You underestimate the power of R'hllor," Thoros told the Hound.

"Is that so? Tell me, can your bloody lord save a man without a head?"

Hearing those words sent a stab of sadness through Sansa's heart. The memory of her father's head on a spike suddenly flashed in her mind, as vivid and real as the flames flickering in front of her. Lord Beric smiled softly. "Good luck, Clegane," was all he said.

The Hound shook his head bitterly. "Come on, little bird. Time to leave the cravens to their magic tricks and thieving." Sansa stood up and made to follow him to the exit where the yellow-cloaked man stood waiting with a hood.

"I think not, Clegane," Dondarrion said suddenly. "The lady stays with us."

The Hound suddenly went stiff. His fists clenched tight and his mouth went hard and twitched. "The girl's mine_,_" he said in a low growl.

"_Yours?_" Lord Beric laughed. "You speak as though she were a sword to own, not a highborn lady."

The Hound's eyes narrowed. "She's my prisoner."

"Do you think us fools?" Thoros cut in. "We know what you want the lady for."

"I'm returning her to her mother." The cloth dressing around the Hound's arm was starting to speckle with little dots of blood. In his anger, he didn't notice. "You already took my gold… don't take her as well."

"Find someone else to rub your cock, Clegane," said Harwin angrily, stepping out from the shadows and into the light.

"That's _enough_," said Lord Beric sharply, "the lady in question is present, in case you've forgotten." He looked back at the Hound. "And she's worth a lot more to us than your gold. It is _we _who will be seeing her returned to her mother."

The Hound's lips were pressed so tight together that they started to tremble. "I risked _everything _to save her."

"And I'm certain she's grateful for it," replied Lord Beric.

Sansa's heart was hammering inside of her chest as she watched her fate being determined by men she neither knew nor trusted. _It isn't fair!_ she thought angrily. _He brought me so far, he took care of me. _She stared at the Hound, feeling more helpless now than she ever had in King's Landing. "I should have a say in this," she said suddenly. "It is my life and my family's gold. I would go with my knight. He is sworn to protect me."

Everyone in the cave went quiet. The crackling of wood in the firepit was the only sound for a few very long moments. Sansa didn't like the scrutinising way all of these strange men were now watching her. The Hound was watching her as well, but she didn't know what to make of the look in his eyes. _Should I say more, or should I have not said anything at all?_

It didn't matter; Lord Beric spoke first, and he spoke frankly. "It is not a question of what is fair, my lady." He sounded apologetic, but nonetheless resolute. "We need gold, and ransoming you to your mother will bring us some gold."

"I'll tell her you mistreated me," Sansa said.

"_We_ mistreated you?" Thoros angrily replied. "And what of this shining _knight_ of yours?"

"Quiet," Lord Beric said, sounding strangely calm. His weak voice seemed louder than it was, and it produced the silence it commanded. "There will be no more petty arguing. Lem, take the dog out of here. Tom and Harwin will go with you." Beric Dondarrion looked at Sansa. "My lady, I hope one day you will understand why we must do this."

As the man in the yellow cloak swept across the cave, Sansa stared back at the Lightning Lord. "You left King's Landing on my father's orders," she said accusingly. "You… you betrayed him."

"Aye, I left on your father's orders, but in King Robert's name, my lady. And King Robert is dead. So is your father."

Sansa felt her fists clench into tight balls. Her lips quivered and her heart felt like it was breaking in two. A lump formed in her throat, but she said nothing more.

When Lem got within a few steps of the Hound, he stopped. "Someone bring some rope, bind his hands." Dennett already had his longbow aimed at Sandor's head, ready to fire should the Hound try anything brash. Tom stepped forward and bound the Hound's wrists together.

Sandor's eyes found Sansa's, but he only held her gaze for a moment before the hood was thrown over his head. He let out a low angry growl and roughly shook his captors off of him. Lem grasped his freshly burned arm and twisted hard. A muted moan came from beneath the hood, strangled and pained. "Try that again, Clegane," said the lemon-cloaked man, "and I may just burn your other arm to match this one." He laughed. "Tom, Harwin." He roughly shoved the Hound towards the other end of the cave.

"No!" Sansa cried helplessly, her voice sounding meek and insignificant. She went to go after them, but a hand suddenly grabbed her by the arm. When she turned she saw it was Gendry the blacksmith restraining her. "Let me go," she said angrily. She yanked herself free from his grasp, but she made no further attempt to go after the Hound. Instead she watched in abject dejection as his hulking body was pushed through one of the tunnels. A moment later he was gone.

"You'll be safer with the Brotherhood, m'lady," said Gendry softly.

Without a word Sansa turned away from him. She went by herself to a dark corner of the cave and sat down against a cold stone wall. An aching emptiness swallowed up her insides and ate away at her heart. The gods had deserted her, along with everyone else. She'd been forgotten within the desolation of the war and the hollowed walls of this dark cave. She sat there for a very long time, hugging her knees into her chest, too empty inside to cry.

Never in her entire life had Sansa Stark felt so alone.


	7. Chapter 7

The days were warm, much warmer than they'd been in weeks past. It felt so much like the autumns Sansa used to read about in her stories. Behind a canopy of golden foliage the sky overhead was crisp and blue, clearer than a southron sea.

Her furs now travelled in a saddlebag strapped to Silver, though Lord Beric was adamant that she keep wearing Sandor Clegane's scratchy brown travelling cloak. "He at least knew enough to hide you under that thing," he told her with a weak smile. His voice was softer than a sigh whenever he spoke, and there wasn't even a hint of the splendid sparkle that had once dazzled his eyes. In no way did he resemble the handsome lord Jeyne Poole had fallen for so long ago. _And I'm no longer the girl _I_ used to be,_ Sansa solemnly reminded herself.

During her first few days as the Brotherhood's prisoner Sansa hardly ate a thing. "More for the rest of us," Thoros shrugged when she had refused a bowl of watery cabbage soup. Later on that same night, curled up in a bedroll, she overheard him talking with Lord Beric. "Like a bitch without her dog, my lord." Drunk, he laughed heartily. "Don't fret so much. We'll be rid of her soon enough." The next morning the painful aches of hunger finally surpassed the dull pangs of emptiness in her stomach, and Sansa gratefully accepted the helping of runny porridge they offered her.

With the Brotherhood she ate better than she ever had with the Hound. From time to time they also slept in inns upon big straw beds. There also always seemed to be wine to drink and, when Tom O'Sevens was happy, which was often, there were songs to be sung. It wasn't _bad_, she reluctantly had to admit, being their captive.

But then again, neither was it _good_. Sansa wasn't allowed to forget she was their prisoner, not even for a moment. Someone was always watching her, even when she went to make water in the woods. No one trusted her when she promised she wouldn't run off. "That sister of yours did," Lem Lemoncloak reminded her, thus putting the matter to rest. It didn't matter how well she behaved, they refused to believe she wasn't like Arya.

While Sansa had grown accustomed (or as accustomed as a lady might ever be expected to be) to sleeping out of doors when she'd been the Hound's prisoner, doing so now, surrounded by thieving outlaws, only made her lonely. Her mind wandered to dark places on those nights, thinking of things she would be better off forgetting: How Bran and Rickon had died; the Great Sept of Baelor, where her father thought his last thoughts; she would remember how she'd behaved in King's Landing as well, and shame would burn so black inside of her she almost choked on the remorse. _I was one of them,_ she lamented night after night, _and I wanted it that way._ Beneath the dark autumn sky her heart slowly turned to stone.

When they had a roof above them Sansa fared much better. She would usually accept a glass of wine to help her sleep or, on occasion, even a cup of ale, although she did not enjoy the taste and could never finish more than a sip or two. Like the Hound, she preferred wine. _Although he likes dark and sour wine, _she often remembered,_ and I like mine sweet and spiced._

Sansa also grew to enjoy some of Tom O'Sevens' songs, although she had little favour for his stories concerning women. Once he sang a song about a flopping fish, and she giggled as she listened, lightheaded from drink and travel. Harwin leaned over to her and whispered that the song was about her uncle Edmure Tully, and that its meaning was not exactly kind. She stopped smiling immediately, and narrowed her eyes at Tom when he glanced her way and winked.

Sometimes Sansa missed the Hound, but then she'd quickly remember the cold hateful grey of his eyes and she wasn't sure what exactly it was she missed about him. There had been too many long lonely days where he'd hardly said a word to her and, when he did have something to say, it was usually cruel and mean. _But he could also be generous,_ she would remind herself in such moments of doubt. He'd always divided what little food they had evenly and, when they took turns keeping watch at night, he always let her sleep much longer than he ever did. _And he was sweet to kiss..._ Sansa's stomach swirled with a mixture of lust and regret every time she thought about kissing him. _Wherever he is, _she wondered, _does he ever think about me? _

One night she even dreamt about kissing him. In the dream he was completely covered with fresh burns, but his lips were soft and sweet and she hardly took notice of his seared skin. But his lips soon turned hard and then his burns started to bubble, suddenly melting away like snow under a hot sun. When Sansa tried pulling away, he only held onto her tighter, his grip as hard as iron and his mouth cold and suffocating. Raw flesh slowly ran down his cheeks, and it slipped between their lips; she could taste blood on her tongue and skin in her throat. Sansa woke up sticky with sweat and choking for breath. Beside her, Gendry woke up as well. "A bad dream," she told him, laying her head back down and pressing her eyelids tightly shut. _A nightmare. _

Whenever they stayed at inns, the Brotherhood ate and drank and whored themselves away like kings. Sansa would always sit with Gendry on a bench and watch them, silently thinking about the gold they stole from the Hound. _We're dining on his coin,_ she realised once as a bowl of hot stew was set down in front her. Earlier Harwin had tried to convince her all the gold went towards helping ruined smallfolk, but Sansa didn't believe him. When she finally complained about it to Gendry, he merely shrugged his shoulders and reached for his drink. "We have to eat too, m'lady."

Being the Brotherhood's captive felt something like a grey summer's day with neither sun nor rain. _It simply_ _is_. She was once a pawn in King's Landing and nothing had changed. _I'm still a pawn. _The outlaws at least treated her like a lady, something the Hound never did. Only Thoros didn't seem to like her, and perhaps Lem Lemoncloak as well, but she wasn't certain about him because he was surly to everyone. She could _feel_ the red priest's dislike, though, and had felt it ever since he'd seen her kissing Sandor Clegane.

Sometimes she wondered how long the Brotherhood had been there watching them. It flustered her thinking about it. Only moments before they were interrupted the Hound had shifted his large body closer to hers and his fingertips began to explore the contours of her back, making her shiver with warm expectation. Sansa sometimes longed to know what would've happened next, though mostly she felt grateful for the interruption, particularly when she thought about having to look the Hound in the eye afterwards to acknowledge what they'd done. _What would we have said to each other?_ She couldn't even begin to imagine a conversation with him after that. _He likely would have spoken discourteously, _she eventually concluded, _or he'd have laughed at me_. Somehow he'd have found a way to ruin the sweetness of the moment.

Travelling with the Brotherhood was slow, much slower than it had ever been when she'd been with the Hound. Sometimes they travelled north, other times south, and then some days they seemed to be heading either east or west. _Everywhere but towards Riverrun! _A desperate anxiousness grew steadily in her belly with each passing day. "There's an entire realm of folk who need our help," Lord Beric told her in his wispy whisper when Sansa asked him about it. "Fear not, my lady, we'll get you to your mother. In time."

There were some days when the Brotherhood would be gone foraying from morning until after nightfall. Sansa would always be kept behind with Gendry and two sentries. Those days were some of the hardest to get through, sitting there immobile and bored with nothing to do but think. It was during such times she and Gendry eventually became friends. He started by telling her about his adventures with Arya, and then he moved on to his life in King's Landing. Sansa felt it impossible that anyone could have grown up the way he had. She felt immensely guilty at first when she spoke to him of her childhood in Winterfell, but he never once showed bitterness or resentment during any of her stories, and so she told him many. He wanted to hear all about living in a castle and having siblings and proper parents and servants. His smile was kind and it always reached his eyes. Sansa hadn't realised how badly she'd missed having a friend. "My mother's _so_ close," she told him one day, feeling as brooding and bitter as the Hound, "and yet she has no idea I'm this near."

"The Brotherhood _will_ see you to her, m'lady," Gendry replied, just as confident and kind as always. "You needn't worry."

"All I want is to go home. I just want this all to finally be over." Being able to once again speak freely felt good. With the Hound she'd had to watch everything she said. _He took every little word to heart, especially when I mentioned wanting to go home._

Whenever the Brotherhood returned from a foray, it was always with victorious smiles and bellies full of drink... and purses of stolen coins. The Brotherhood's growing coffer was an inspiration to their cause and it kept their spirits bright. Sansa eventually saw that they _did_ send much of the gold away to help out the smallfolk. _But it still doesn't make what they do right. _At the end of the day they were still thieves, the same men who'd left the Hound with nothing. How many other people were now penniless wanderers because of the Brotherhood's itchy fingers?

Sansa mostly kept quiet on the nights when they returned from plundering. She would never join in on their songs and always needed to drink a half cup of wine just to settle her nerves. "The Brotherhood helps a lot of people," Gendry told her one night when she was feeling particularly sullen. "People who might've otherwise starved."

"Now _others _will starve instead," she snapped back. Only moments before she'd finished a full cup of wine on an almost empty stomach, and the drink had loosened her tongue. "Can't you see how unfair it is? No matter how good a deed may be, there's always a loser somewhere."

Gendry frowned and sipped his ale, watching her curiously. "Why do you still worry for him, m'lady?"

"Pardon?"

"You know." He smiled kindly. "The king's dog."

Sansa angrily blushed. "I already told you. He's my friend and he saved me. And your _brothers_ left him with nothing."

"You needn't get so upset, m'lady. I just meant to say, well... a man like that, he can take care of himself. I'm sure he's fine. So you shouldn't worry, that's all."

"I _don't_ worry," she lied, wishing to put the matter to rest. As the night went on, however, she thought some more about Gendry's words. _He can take care of himself. _Perhaps the Hound _would _be better off without her burdening him, she reasoned as sleep slowly overtook her tired mind. _I just wish he had some gold_.

One morning Sansa woke to the sounds of urgent voices. Day hadn't yet broken. "What's happening?" she asked Gendry, who was already awake beside her. There was a cool breeze in the air. She pulled her furs tight around her shoulders.

"We're going after the Bloody Mummers," he said, his face still cloaked in night's shadow. "They're holding a town not far from here and Lord Beric's scouts think we can take them."

Sansa shifted nervously. "We?"

He laughed good-naturedly. "Don't fret, m'lady. You and I won't be fighting. Thoros says we're to wait outside the town. Beardless Dick and Mudge'll be staying with us."

When they rode out shortly thereafter, Sansa sat atop Silver and nibbled on dry bread. She wished she and Gendry had been allowed to remain behind at camp; despite knowing they'd be kept away from the fighting, she couldn't help feeling as though she were riding into battle. Her stomach swayed nervously with dread.

The Brotherhood left them on a high hill close to the town they were about to attack, much closer than she would've liked or expected. First light had only just begun to pierce the deep purple of a clear dawn sky. Sansa remained on her horse, staring down through the leafless autumn trees and waiting.

A man's silhouette suddenly appeared on the rooftop of the septry below, stretching out the cramps sleep had left in his arms. An arrow whizzed through the air softer than a whisper, and it struck the man in the chest; he tumbled silently from the roof. Sansa gasped and covered her mouth. "Look away if it troubles you," Gendry told her kindly. "A lady needn't see such things."

Sansa gladly heeded his advice, but not before seeing another man's silhouette take an arrow to the throat. His gurgling chokes could be heard even from the hilltop. Taking a deep shuddery breath, she closed her eyes tight.

As the fighting escalated, shouts rose up from the town. Sansa could hear every single one, but she did not dare look that way again. The tranquility of the morning's silence had been broken and, as the sun rose, the sky turned a deep red. _It's_ _bleeding with the dead._ "I'm tired of listening to this," she said after hearing another man's bloodcurdling scream. _One more dead._ How did the gods keep track?

Beardless Dick chortled beside her, but he did not sound amused. "M'lady, we're _all_ tired of it. We're helping put an end to it, though. These fallen men you're pitying? They're an awful company made up of awful men. Savages, murderers of children. We're doing the realm a justice, killing them here."

Sansa did not say anything more after that. _Everyone's cause is a justice in their eyes,_ she thought sullenly, petting Silver's pretty coat with a trembling hand. Her fingernails were caked with dirt. _Everyone is able to justify death somehow._ But then she _had_ heard the Brotherhood talking about the Bloody Mummers a few times before and, were she to be honest about the matter, she couldn't deny such men probably _did_ deserve to die. _I'd just rather not have to know of it._

Soon the fighting was over and the Brotherhood returned to them atop the hilltop with captives. There were nine in total, one of them a septon. "A bunch skittered away on us," Thoros told Beardless Dick and Mudge as he approached, his brow covered with a thin sheen of sweet and speckled with blood.

"But we'll find them and kill them," Lord Beric added, looking almost dead himself. He declared that a trial would be had then and there for their captives. The men came forth one by one, each one telling of the things the Bloody Mummers had done. Sansa listened to how they'd sacked villages and raped women, and even to the stories about the little boys the grey-robed septon had carried off and killed. Each of the Mummers met the same fate in the end, all of them hanged, and all as naked as newborn babes.

Sansa did not watch the hangings. She did not listen either, preferring instead to clasp her hands over her ears and hum softly to herself. She did not realise it was all over until Gendry gently tapped her on the arm. "That was Florian and Jonquil, wasn't it, m'lady?"

"Pardon?" Sansa wiped away the tears that had been in her eyes.

"The song you were just humming."

She didn't answer him. Her attention had been drawn to the bodies dangling from the trees. Her breath locked in her throat at the sight of them. They swayed almost gracefully in the gentle breeze. Down below, the septry burned.

That night they took shelter in a brewhouse that stood beside the town's little river. It was raining outside, and the drops hammered down onto the roof in an endless downpour that made Sansa feel cold. She huddled close to the fire and ate her bread and soup in silence. Thoros and Lord Beric talked quietly of the Mummers who'd managed to escape the attack. "Dick is sure he saw them flee north," the red priest said softly, helping himself to a healthy swallow of ale. Soon thereafter, despite the heavy rains, Lord Beric sent both Beardless Dick and Mudge out into the night to scout for the escaped Mummers.

"Rest well tonight, brothers," he said in a tired whisper of a voice. "Chances are we'll be having us another fight come dawn."

Gendry suddenly stood up. All night he'd been staring into his soup, deep in thought and strangely silent. "I don't want to stay behind anymore," he announced. "I would fight with you tomorrow."

Lem Lemoncloak laughed roughly. His laugh was harsh and hostile, and it immediately made Sansa think of the Hound. A cold shiver tickled her spine. "The boy's inhaled too many iron fumes," he said dismissively. "Wants to fight! Ha, can you even swing a sword, smith?"

Gendry's face became red and angry. "It was _you_ who told me I'd be welcomed into the Brotherhood. _You_ said I would find a place here, that I could join. Well let me join, and for true. I _want_ to. I can make tools and mend mail and forge a blade." He looked hard at Lem. "And I _can _too swing a sword. I'm no knight, that's true, but I could learn to fight and I know I'll get good with practise."

Sansa listened nervously as the Brotherhood debated raising Gendry to their ranks. _How can someone be raised to outlaw?_ she wondered. At last Lord Beric rose with a smile, and then he had the red priest hand him his sword. Sansa watched his tired face as he made Gendry kneel before him, and then he gently placed his sword upon the boy's shoulder. _He's making Gendry a knight! _she realised in disbelief. _Here and now, even though he's unskilled with a blade._ The whole thing seemed so very _wrong._

Gendry spoke his vows as though he'd been waiting his whole life to say them. Then Beric Dondarrion moved his sword from the right shoulder to the left. "Arise Ser Gendry, knight of the hollow hill, and be welcome to our brotherhood."

He rose, having gone from nothing to something just like that. Sansa looked between Gendry and Lord Beric in disbelief. _He's no knight,_ she told herself, _and those vows meant nothing!_ A knight wasn't supposed to steal and take the law into his own hands, and he most certainly wasn't supposed to serve a band of outlaws. _He isn't even highborn,_ she thought, watching as Gendry drank down a full cup of ale and then smiling at his new place in the world. _He never even served as a squire, let alone a page! _No one else seemed to think anything of it though, and so Sansa kept quiet.

Tom O'Sevens took out his harp and began to play some songs. Some of the others joined in on the singing. Gendry sang the loudest, his smile not wavering for an instant. _A knight!_ Sansa kept thinking to herself, sitting alone by the fire. _He's no knight. None of them are, save for Lord Beric, and he should be ashamed for tainting the title this way. _And yet a knight can make a knight, and he had done just that. Sansa found herself wondering what Sandor Clegane would think about all of this. _He would probably laugh in their faces._ Even _she _felt a little like laughing, but Sansa wasn't mean like the Hound was, and so she kept her dissent to herself.

When she finished her soup and bread Sansa moved to a corner in the brewhouse and spread her cloak upon the dirt floor. She lay down and pulled her furs tight around her. Try as she might, though, she could not sleep. Her mind was swirling with black thoughts and her chest was tight with anger. _A knight!_

Gendry eventually came to her corner and lay down beside her, as he did every night. "M'lady," he said with a gentle smile when he saw that she was still awake. "I thought you'd have fallen asleep by now." He smelled like ale, but it wasn't a heavy smell, nothing like the stench that would cling to the Hound whenever he drank wine. "I'm a knight now," Gendry said softly, almost to himself. There was a drunken sparkle of wonderment in his blue eyes.

_Not a _true _knight,_ Sansa thought, suddenly feeling more sad for him than annoyed. _I should let him enjoy this moment, _she told herself, _as false as it is. _"Is a knight something you aspired to be when you were a boy?"

"I think every boy wants to be a knight at some point," Gendry said. "Noble or not, even we _lowliest_ of boys have dreams, m'lady." His smile didn't fade. It was nice to look upon such a kind face, Sansa thought, though not for the first time.

"My brother Bran wanted to be a knight," she said. "He would've been a good one, too. A true knight, like in the stories."

Gendry studied her face for a moment. "I _know _I'm no true knight, m'lady," he said quietly. "But at least I'm something now."

"You were a smith before."

"Naught but a bastard apprentice." He smiled and shrugged. "Now I belong somewhere. You know what that's like, to belong in a place."

Sansa thought about Winterfell and summer snow and of her direwolf Lady. _And I couldn't wait to leave that place,_ she thought, ashamed of herself. _I couldn't wait to become a lady of King's Landing. The queen._ A part of her still shuddered when she thought of how close she'd been to becoming Joffrey's wife. _My son would have been king one day._ Something suddenly pinched at her insides, but it was gone again just as quickly. "It's a good feeling to belong somewhere," was all she said.

Gendry's eyes were so very blue, even in the dim light of the brewhouse. "M'lady," he said softly, "can I tell you something? As a knight to a lady, I mean." He smiled at her, his nose and cheeks pink from drink.

"Of course. You needn't ask me permission."

"You truly are beautiful. Arry always told me you were, but I never knew just how much until I first saw you for myself. And I know I offended you that day, calling you a liar the way I did. I wasn't there when the butcher's boy died, so I don't know what you saw, not truly. It's just that your sister, well, we were friends and... and I'm sorry, m'lady, it's… it's the ale doing the talking now..." Gendry trailed off, looking abashed and blushing.

Sansa suddenly pulled her furs up tight around her cheeks and averted her gaze. Gendry was handsome and quite pleasant to look at, but in truth he had never made her heart jump or her stomach flutter. _Why can't I want to kiss someone like him? _she wondered briefly. Then she remembered she was a lady, and that she should only ever kiss her lord husband, whoever he might one day be.

Gendry laughed good naturedly when she made no reply. "You needn't look so uncomfortable, m'lady. I wasn't asking for your hand, I only wanted to pay you a compliment."

When Sansa looked at him again his eyes twinkled. She couldn't help a small smile. The Hound always used to say she was pretty, but he'd only ever said it derisively and never to be kind. It was nice to hear such sincere words again, and so she told Gendry as much.

"M'lady?" he said again. "Can I ask you something?" He bit his lip hesitantly when she nodded. "It's true, isn't it? That you were kissing the king's dog when... when Thoros and his party found you."

Sansa's cheeks were suddenly burning and she immediately looked away from him. She said nothing.

Her silence was answer enough, though. "That's why you lied at his trial."

"I didn't lie," she protested.

"Aye, you did. But at least now I know why. Thoros says you were enjoying the kiss almost as much as the Hound was."

"I… it's not proper of you to ask me about such things."

"Pardon me then, m'lady." He was still smiling, and not looking the least bit rueful. _Just drunk, _she thought. _He's drunker than he knows_. His eyes still twinkled, a sparkle she now recognised as inebriation. "He came down to Flea Bottom on occasion," Gendry told her. "The king's dog. I saw him once or twice in the taverns. He always sat alone, and he always looked sour."

Sansa nervously rubbed the scar on her hand.

"Everyone was scared of him, but I never quite understood why. What do you think, m'lady? Was it the burns they feared, or is he truly as terrible as they say?"

"I don't know."

"M'lady, if I-"

"What does any of it matter?" she snapped suddenly. "It isn't as though I'll ever see him again." Those words echoed inside of her head, and it occurred to her for the first time that they were true. The sudden realisation made her feel as hard as stone. She turned her back to Gendry and closed her eyes. Not all that long ago the prospect of never again seeing Sandor Clegane would've been cause to celebrate_._ Now it only made her feel sad and angry. _Wherever he is, he's probably drunk and has forgotten all about me_. Sansa suddenly felt incredibly stupid for letting herself care about someone like him. _He only ever wanted one thing,_ she reminded herself, _the one thing I never would have given him. _It occurred to her the Hound had probably known this all along. _That's why he was always so mean to me._ She furiously wiped her mouth with her sleeve and tried to ignore the salty burn of tears on her cheeks. Now more than ever, she just wanted to go home.

Sleep came to her at some point, for the next thing she knew she was being awoken by the sounds of voices. Sansa looked up to find the members of the Brotherhood busily arming themselves with swords and bows. Beside her Gendry was already sitting up, scowling angrily as he watched his new brothers readying themselves. "Is it morning already?" she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

"No," Gendry replied without even a glance her way. "Dick and Mudge found where the escaped Mummers are hiding out. They're going on a night raid to get them while they sleep."

"Are you going along too? You're… one of them now."

"No," he said, suddenly unable to disguise his bitterness. "I have to stay here with Beardless Dick and guard _you_."

"Gendry!" Harwin called then, hailing the smith. He was holding out a sheathed sword. Gendry got to his feet and went over to the former northman. He took the sword, nodding when Harwin told him something, and then came back to sit with her, brooding bitterly.

Sansa lay her head back down on a rolled up fur, watching as the Brotherhood left the brewhouse one by one, armed and intent. Moments later the gallop of horse hooves thundered upon the ground as they departed into the night. Then there was silence once more.

There was only a soft rain falling now. Sansa listened to it trickling steadily down through the gutters. Beardless Dick sat down at the table and helped himself to a drink of ale. He downed it quickly and then slammed his empty mug down against the tabletop with a bang. "I hear you're one of us now," he grumbled at Gendry, wiping his mouth with a filthy sleeve.

"Aye," Gendry said sullenly, sword slung across his lap.

"Good," said Beardless Dick, "then _you _can stay up and watch over the little lady. I been out there all bloody day, and gods know I need some sleep. _Brrr!_" he shuddered suddenly, "it's colder than a septa's teet in here." He stood up and then strode to the brewhouse's door. "Put another log on that fire, would you? Gonna go have me a piss."

When the door closed and Beardless Dick disappeared out into the night, Gendry let out a heavy sigh and then got to his feet. He went to the woodpile and grabbed a log, paused, and then decided to take two. "I'm cold as well," he mumbled dully, glancing her way. "Are you cold, m'lady?" Gendry turned his back to her before she had a chance to answer him. He fed the logs to the flame and then sat down on a nearby bench, hunched over and brooding and having himself another drink of ale.

Time passed. When Beardless Dick didn't return, Sansa began to feel nervous. Eventually Gendry stood up, slow and cautious and clearly just as nervous as she was, and holding his sheathed blade tight in his hand. "Where is he?" His voice was an anxious whisper. He crept carefully towards the door. "What's taking him so long?"

"Don't go out there," Sansa said when he reached the door. She stood up. "You're supposed to stay here and protect me."

Gendry paused and looked her way, frowning. "Aye," he said after a moment's thought, "you're right. Dick's most like found himself a woman and—"

The door suddenly burst open, cutting him short. Sansa gasped when she saw the Hound step inside. His dark hair was wet and clinging to the side of his face. He glanced at her first, and then at Gendry, and then his mouth twisted into an ugly smile. Behind him, the door slammed shut with an awakening bang. Sansa's heart tightened when she saw the blood dripping from his sword.

"S-stay back." Gendry took a nervous step backwards, nearly tripping over himself as he did so. A terrible, rasping laugh suddenly filled the brewhouse. With shaking hands, Gendry tried to unsheathe his sword from its scabbard.

"I wouldn't," Sandor Clegane warned him. The pocked scars on his face were slick from the rain and slowly oozing a soft reddish secretion. On his neck his new burns had become a gruesome motley of purple blistering scabs and watery yellow boils. Sansa shuddered at the sight of him. A stained dressing on his arm veiled the worst of the burns. "I can be merciful," the Hound said, "but that all depends." Smirking angrily, he backed Gendry up against a wall. "You marked me a murderer."

"N-no," Gendry stuttered, "I was only… I was only telling the truth. You _did _kill the butcher's boy. Royal orders or not, you killed him. M-Mycah."

The Hound flinched. "Don't you _ever_ say that name to me." He suddenly lifted his sword.

"Stop!" Sansa shouted. "Don't hurt him! Please, he's just a smith, just a _boy_, he's never harmed anyone."

The Hound hardly even glanced her way. "He harmed _me," _he rasped angrily. "You stupid boy, you should've kept your bloody mouth shut that day. Tell me, did you feel _justice _when my skin was melting away? Was it _pleasing_ for you to watch?"

"Please," Sansa pleaded softly. "Please, be merciful, don't hurt him."

The Hound's eyes were suddenly on hers, and they burned with such a fierce brutality that her knees went weak. His mouth angrily twitched, but he never got the chance to say what he would. Gendry quickly ducked away from his reach and then wrenched his sword free from its scabbard. He put the firepit between them.

The Hound looked at the smith and laughed. "Is this your plan, boy? To hide behind fire?" While his lips wore a smirk, there was no amusement in his eyes. They were shrouded with impatience, glinting icy grey and angry.

Gendry was clutching his sword in a grip so tight his knuckles had gone white. The blade trembled as he held it out in front of him, waiting for the Hound to strike. When Sandor Clegane took a step towards him, the smith slashed at the burning logs in the firepit so that sparks and cinders suddenly flew at the Hound's face. Sandor shouted out in abhorrence. A moment later the sparks were gone; the set of furious grey eyes remained, however. Sansa's heart sank. _He would have been merciful, _she thought helplessly, _I know he would have been…  
_

The Hound moved quickly, obviously much faster than Gendry would've ever expected, for the sudden charge caused the smith to stumble backwards and fall to the ground. Sansa backed herself up against the nearest wall, pressing herself up tight to the cold timber and holding her breath. Gendry scrambled on all fours towards the door, away from what he surely understood would come next.

Sansa didn't even have time to look away. The point of the Hound's longsword was fast and sharp and it slid smoothly into Gendry's back, right where the heart was. It was a motion so fluid and graceful that it did not seem fierce enough to bring upon death. But as the blade left him, Gendry's body slunk lifelessly to the earthen floor, jolting for a moment before it went still.

Silence filled the room. With shaking hands Sansa covered her mouth, staring wide eyed at the Hound and too frightened to make a sound. His back was to her. He stood staring down at the dead boy, his shoulders rising and falling with the heaving of his chest. Blood slowly oozed down the blade of his longsword. _Gendry's blood._ Sansa's eyes welled with tears. _Ser Gendry of the hollow hill._

The Hound suddenly spoke, and his voice was low and angry and shook with every word. "Where's my gold?"

Her back still pressed up tight against the wall, Sansa was too breathless and terrified to reply. Every muscle in her body seemed to be quivering. After a few moments of silence the Hound slowly turned to face her. When his eyes met hers, they were cold and grey and full of anger. He spoke again, slower than before, and his voice trembled. "Where… do they keep… my bloody _gold_?"

Sansa's breath came back to her. "It… it's gone. They spent it all. G-gave it away." Her eyes suddenly flickered to Gendry's lifeless body. An empty sob caught in her throat. "You didn't have to _kill_ him… he didn't need to die." Her voice sounded small and futile.

The Hound's mouth twisted. He strode quickly across the floor and was in front of her before she could blink. His sword clattered to the ground as he reached out to grab her. He took her jaw between his thumb and fingers and roughly jerked her face upwards so that she had no other choice but to look at him. There were tiny flecks of blood speckled across his cheeks. His hard angry eyes flickered carefully between hers. For a moment Sansa thought he might actually try to kiss her. A wave of nausea gripped the walls of her stomach and she looked away. His fingers tightened for a moment, and Sansa whimpered softly in response, closing her eyes. "The little bird was hoping I'd forgotten. Is that it?"

"N-no," she stammered feebly. "Please... y-you're scaring me…"

The Hound grimaced. "He told them I was a bloody murderer." His voice cracked. Suddenly he released her.

Sansa stood frozen with fear as he turned away. He began to rummage through what little belongings the Brotherhood had lying about the brewhouse, and then cursed angrily when he came up with nothing. Gendry lay lifeless in a pool of dark blood that looked more black than it did red. _I would leave this place and never return._ With legs that felt like water, Sansa slowly went over to one of the benches. "I… I think I saw the priest reaching under this bench earlier," she said. The Hound looked up at her, his eyes still glistening with a coldness that made her breath catch. She reached under the bench and pulled out a small leather purse, which he immediately snatched away from her. Naught but a few coins jingled inside when he shook it.

"Bloody thieves." He spat angrily on the ground. "This will have to suffice. We can't linger here any longer. Let's go, little bird. You're coming with me whether you bloody well want to or not." His hand was suddenly on her wrist, gripping her tight and twisting her skin as he dragged her towards the door.

With tears clouding her eyes, she tried in vain to pull herself free from his iron grip. "Why are you hurting me?" A heavy sob escaped her, and the Hound suddenly stopped. "Please," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I'll… I'll go with you, just please don't hurt me."

He stared at her for a long moment. "Get your furs," he said finally, anger smouldering in his eyes like thick black smoke. "Hurry up." He released her and then Sansa rushed to the corner where her furs had been spread. She gathered them up in her arms, too rushed and shaking to bother rolling them up neatly. The Hound led her outside.

The sky was black and moonless. Cold wet rain drizzled steadily down onto them as they trudged silently across an empty mud street. The Hound's heavy hand held her shoulder tight, feeling nothing like the hand that had gently cradled her face when they kissed. He led her into the trees at the town's edge. After a few moments Sansa saw Stranger, his eyes glistening like little black balls of burning coal. She suddenly stopped. "What about Silver?" she asked. "She's in the stables, they're just over there…"

The Hound shoved her towards the waiting warhorse. "No time for that. You don't ride near well enough to be on your own tonight. We need to make haste." He snatched her furs from her and then unceremoniously crammed them into an empty saddlebag. "We'll ride double."

Sansa stepped away when he reached out to help her onto the horse. "Why did you kill him?"

Sandor grimaced slightly. "That's enough bloody talk." His voice was low and threatening. He made to grab for her again, but she quickly sidestepped the attempt. For a quick moment he straightened, reminding her of just how large and powerful he was.

Sansa didn't care. "You didn't have to kill him!" she shouted. The ferocity with which she spoke surprised her, but _only_ her. The Hound angrily grabbed her around the waist. Even though she struggled, he effortlessly lifted her up onto his horse. He climbed up after her and then slipped his arms around her tight. A moment later he kicked Stranger and the horse whinnied to a start.

The Hound's mouth was suddenly pressed up against her ear. "I thought I was your _knight_," he whispered angrily. His breath was rasping and hot, and it sent cold shivers down her spine. He kept his lips close for another moment, softly touching them to her skin. "The brave knight rescues the fair maiden. Isn't that how the story goes, _my lady_?" Then he pulled his face back and shouted at Stranger to run harder.

Darkness closed in around them. Without another word they disappeared into the black of night.


	8. Chapter 8

The sky was deep and dark and red, the colour of blood. Sansa nervously studied the various silhouettes scattered across the landscape. Surely by now the Brotherhood would have discovered Gendry's body. They'd know about Beardless Dick as well. _Will they come after us?_ she wondered, and not for the first time. With nearly every breath she half expected to see the outlaws coming over the top of a faraway hill. _This time there would be no trial..._

Silence loomed as heavy as the shadows that surrounded them. Sandor Clegane sat broodingly upon the ridge and watched the sunrise. The way his unburned arm was draped across a bent knee, Sansa thought he looked almost comfortable. She stared at him, not recalling his cheekbones ever having been so sunken, nor his face so gaunt. Thin dark hairs hung in a scraggly mess around his eyes, a dishevelled array of loose strands that he didn't bother to brush aside. He had never looked worse. _A sorry man and an even sorrier sight,_ she concluded, turning away.

The morning shadows were long and black and stretched endlessly across the misty valleys below. It was a stunning sight, like a scene from one of her stories. Yet for all of its splendour, Sansa could not enjoy the dawn's tranquil beauty. Too much was missing. The morning after learning about Bran had Rickon had been beautiful as well. _Why must the gods always send sunshine when I just want rain?_

There was a small spring beside her. Its cool water glistened black and red, mirroring the sky overhead. _Like the last embers of a dying fire. _Her mind wandered. Gendry slashed desperately at the brewhouse's firepit and hot orange sparks flew everywhere. A grave mistake that needn't have been fatal. Disrupting the spring's perfect stillness, Sansa plunged her hands into the cool water and splashed her face. No matter how hard she scrubbed, though, the memory would not wash away.

It had been a long night of riding; long and damp and cold. Sansa's mind burned with exhaustion and ached for sleep. But every time she closed her eyes, all she saw was the Hound's long blade sliding gracefully into Gendry's back. She shuddered and tried so desperately to forget. In her mind Gendry's body jolted. His blood soaked into the earthen floor. She dipped her shaking hands into the water again, but the memory remained.

The early morning sky gradually changed from red to orange, and now shimmered the colour of fire. _Blood and fire_, she thought, and stole an angry glance at the Hound. As sullen as she felt, Sansa was too empty inside to cry. Not one single tear had been shed for Gendry, at least not by her. It seemed wrong somehow that she should be so unaffected by his death. _It's because I've seen too many perish already, _she rationalised numbly, _and they meant more to me than Gendry ever did. _Such reasoning did nothing to fill the deep void inside of her.

They were surrounded by old weirwoods and willows, and the autumn leaves rustled softer than a whisper in the breeze. With its feathery summer grass and clean still spring, Sansa knew a dreamy girl from Winterfell who would have loved this place. A part of her longed for that girl to come and rescue her now. _She's dead,_ she lamented, _dead along with everyone else._ That girl wouldn't have known what to do anyway; she'd never known nightmares.

Finally Sansa's eyelids became heavier than her heart, and she rolled from the water's edge into the soft grass. She closed her eyes and fell asleep almost immediately. And she dreamed. She dreamed of Lady and lions, and of dragons too. "They say the world was on fire," came the sing-songy voice of a little girl. Sansa stood beneath a green sky that was engulfed in flames. The Brotherhood and Gendry were there as well, but they were dead. Looking about, she realised that everyone was dead... everyone but _him._ Standing there amongst the slaughtered bodies, his longsword in hand, the Hound's face was entirely unscarred. It glowed as green as the night sky. When he pulled Sansa into his arms and kissed her, his mouth was hotter than fire. He whispered things into her lips, beautiful things she couldn't make sense of. The sky grew greener, brighter, and she melted against his touch. His name fell from her lips as the flames and the sky began to swirl chaotically all around them. A mounting pressure pounded inside of her, so marvellously close to bursting…

Sansa gasped. Her eyes snapped open. For one somnolent moment she rued having woken up. There was a wonderful warmth pulsating between her legs, throbbing in rhythm with her hammering heart. She was as breathless and bewildered as she was mortified.

The Hound was beside the spring, watching her. "Bad dream?" he grumbled when their eyes met.

She quickly sat up. "Yes," she said, nervously glancing at the long strip of cloth he was dipping in and out of the water, "a bad dream." With a deep grimace, his steely eyes fell away from her face.

To redress his burns Sandor Clegane had removed his tunic. Sansa took a moment to study the damage the flames had done. The slick yellow skin healing on his arm was crackling at the edges, where tiny droplets of blood oozed out slowly from under. Dark purple scabs and red bubbling blisters were speckled everywhere, all the way up to his neck. Even a small spot on his ribcage had been burned, though not near as badly. "What if you have an infection?" she wondered aloud.

He pulled the long bandage from the water and scowled. "It's fine," he said stiffly. His mouth twitched as he silently set to redressing the burns. It seemed such an awkward process, so Sansa offered to help him. He glanced at her for a moment, and then made a lazy gesture of acceptance. "Not too tight," he grunted when the wet cloth was ready and dangling between her fingers. "Not loose either."

She frowned and then carefully began to wind the bandage around his arm, trying not to focus on his horrible oozing blisters. The whole time she worked his eyes burned into her face. She refused to look back at him. Images of her dream swirled fresh in her mind. The sweet throbbing between her legs had since ceased, and she was glad for it. With a shiver of revulsion, she had to force herself not to think about it.

The area around his elbow was the worst. Little beads of blood spotted the cracks between his scabs, and there was soft yellow pus slowly secreting from a deep purple crater on the middle of the joint. Each time his arm would bend even slightly, the skin would stretch and pull and bleed. She inwardly cringed and averted her eyes.

Sansa released his arm and got to her feet as soon as she was finished with the redressing. As she wordlessly walked away she could _feel_ his cold silent stare on her back. A sudden chill rippled up her spine. She hurried into the trees and kept walking until she was certain the Hound could no longer see her. And then her knees gave out from under her. Sansa collapsed to the ground. Almost immediately she started to sob, though not for Gendry and not for herself. It was for _everything. _How had she ever arrived at this moment? She wanted to scream, but then when she tried she found she didn't even have the energy to summon a whisper. Her grief stuck in her throat and she prayed it would choke her so she could finally lay this nightmare to rest.

Somewhere nearby a crow suddenly cawed, sadly searching for a companion. Sansa stopped and listened for an answer, but none came. Just like her, the crow was alone. _I'm a wolf without a pack. And the lone wolf dies._ But if that were true, then why hadn't the gods taken her already?

Sansa lay curled up on the ground for a long time, crying at first and then shivering once the tears ran dry. Eventually she heard a familiar set of footsteps coming nearer. She curled up into a tight ball and squeezed her eyes shut. "It's time to go," came Sandor Clegane's cold raspy voice. A wave of numbness went through her at the sound of it. Feeling as hard as stone, she got to her feet and sullenly followed him out of the trees.

While she'd been gone, Stranger had been readied for another day of riding. He snorted when he saw her, his eyes just as angry as his master's. Sansa hated them both. She thought about what a nice horse Silver was, and waited for the Hound to lift her into the saddle. He reached for her hand instead. She quickly pulled away from him, tightly crossing her arms over her chest. "Look at me," he rasped softly.

Her eyes downcast, Sansa shook her head. Long seconds went by. The quiet hush of the breeze echoed in her ears for what felt like an eternity. Her heart weighed so heavy inside of her. She stared at the Hound's boots, dirty old things worn down from travel.

After a long while he spoke again. "The boy drew his sword." His words were slow and deliberate, as though he were struggling to control the undying rage inside of him, always aching for release. "I would've let him be... he needed only to stand down." Sansa said nothing. _See how he likes a cold shoulder for once. _The Hound's ragged breathing started to become fast and impatient. "Seven hells," he whispered angrily, grabbing for her. "_Look at me_!"

Once again she furiously pulled away from him. In her anger she _did _end up looking at him, though. The burned side of his mouth twitched. For one fleeting moment Sansa thought about their kiss. She cringed. "_Do not _touch me again," she told him.

His jaw clenched. "He drew his sword."

"Gendry knew _nothing _of swordsmanship." She attempted to steady herself, but the effort was in vain. "He could hardly hold the blade, even I saw that. You did too!"

"When a man draws his sword—"

"Man? Gendry was a boy." Her heart was hammering hard in her chest; the sensation was almost dizzying. "A _boy._ Even you said so yourself."

"Aye," the Hound agreed solemnly. "A boy, and greener than summer grass at that. But one with a sword."

"Say what you will," she said in a voice trembling with emotion. Anger swirled inside of her like Beric Dondarrion's flaming sword. "I never forgot what you told me. You enjoy killing. Remember? There's _nothing sweeter_." A cold hard shudder went up her spine; she'd listened to him speak those very words _twice_, and for all of that she'd _still _let him kiss her in the end. _What does that say about me? Father must truly be ashamed, wherever he is. _Sansa could not believe she'd ever allowed those ugly ruined lips to touch hers. Had she only imagined his kiss to be sweet? She no longer knew. Her stomach lurched.

The Hound stood towering over her, looking impossibly large. His mouth twitched as he carefully studied her face. "There was no joy in this one, little bird. Believe that."

"I _don't _believe it. I can't." Tears of rage clouded her eyes. Sansa furiously wiped them away. In her mind, Gendry's body gave a terrible jolt and he died all over again. "You _murdered _him. And for what? For telling it true. He was right, you _are _a murderer."

He stiffened. "Then what would you have had me do?" His voice was shaking now. When she didn't reply he roughly grabbed her by the wrist, making her wince. "_Tell me_."

She tried wriggling from his grasp, but his hold on her was iron. "You shouldn't have killed him," she said accusingly.

He squeezed her wrist tight. "I would've killed the whole bloody lot of them if that's what it took to get you back."

His words and the sincerity within them took her breath away. "Is that your idea of chivalry?"

"Bugger that. It's the _truth_."

Sansa did not doubt that. "Let go of me," she commanded.

He obeyed, although reluctantly. "Should I have let him strike me first?" he asked after a moment. "A sword _will _kill a man, little bird, no matter who's swinging it." His nostrils flared in anger. A sudden look of realisation flickered upon his face. "If your _friend_ had killed me instead, would you be this upset?" When again she didn't respond, his mouth twisted painfully. "_Answer me_!"

Sansa gave him an answer before she even thought about her words. "You should have just left me alone… I was _glad_ to finally be rid of you!"

The Hound's entire face hardened. He suddenly grabbed her by the shoulders and slammed her roughly up against a tree. Stranger whinnied uneasily. He looked furious enough to strike her. "You're just like all the rest of them," he seethed, his voice trembling. Rage now blazed as deadly as steel in his eyes. His thumbs were on her throat; all he needed to do now was press down and squeeze...

Sansa's confident anger had abandoned her. She was now very afraid. "Y-you're hurting me," she managed to choke out, surprised that she was able to speak at all.

The rough pads of the Hound's thumbs brushed across her throat. "A bunch of lies," he rasped shakily. "Pretty little lies hidden in pretty words behind a pretty face." The heat of his breath caressed her face. She was much too frightened to speak. "I should leave you here," he growled then, his mouth twisting into a horrible sneer. "Leave you for the wolves, see how much of a bloody Stark you really are." His hands suddenly dropped from her shoulders and hit the fabric of his breeches with a hard beaten slap. Grimacing, he turned away from her.

Too terrified to move, she stood watching as he climbed up onto Stranger's back. _He's actually going to leave me,_ she thought, frozen with dread. _He's going to leave me here to die. _"W-wait," she stuttered. "Stop. Please, don't go…"

He glanced at her for a moment, and then laughed out loud when he saw the fear that must have been wide in her eyes. "This is the _second_ time I've heard you pleading for me to stay, little bird. You remember the first? In that cave with your outlaw friends. You shrieked for me, helpless as a kitten. Thought I forgot about that, did you?" His face was as hard as stone. "Gods, you are a stupid bird. Get on the horse, come on. You really think I have so much pride that I'd give up the gold your mother's going to owe me? Hurry up."

Stranger whickered and snorted as she approached. "He's going to kick," she said nervously. The Hound watched her impatiently and said nothing. She hastily stuck her foot in the stirrup and then climbed up awkwardly behind him. Before she'd even settled into the saddle they were moving. She quickly wrapped her arms around Sandor's torso and tried to forget that they'd ever kissed.

They rode late into the afternoon. Earlier on a part of her had still thought the Brotherhood might appear at any moment, but as the day wound down, so did that hope. As the sun started to set, they came over a hill and were met with a looming river in the valley below. It stretched all the way to the horizon, its distant shores too far to spot. The Hound pulled up the reins, stopping a moment to stare down at the body of water. "Is it the Red Fork?" Sansa asked hopefully.

He scoffed. "The Red Fork?" She cringed at the way his rasping voice rumbled against her chest. An uneasy feeling started to swirl in her belly as she realised that the sun was setting _behind_ them; were they heading west towards Riverrun, they'd have been riding into the sunset. But before she could say another word, they were off again, riding down towards the river in a familiar silence. Stranger was panting with fatigue. Sansa wondered if maybe they were now heading towards Winterfell... _Perhaps Robb has taken it back for us. _A bittersweet surge of hope bristled through her. _Home! _It would be emptier now, though. _But it's still home. _She thought of everyone from her father's household who had ridden to King's Landing only to die there. _I'm all that's left... and maybe Arya as well.  
_

They travelled along the banks of the river until they at last came upon a crossing. The Hound barked at her to hide her face beneath her hood, and then he did the same for himself. As they neared a small group ferrymen, he dismounted Stranger. "We're looking to cross," he told the men.

One of the men stood up. "Three silvers apiece," he said. "And four for the horse." Sansa assumed he was the boat's captain.

The Hound nodded gruffly and reached for the small purse he'd taken from the Brotherhood. He dipped his fingers inside and then counted out ten silvers. Only a few coins remained when he tucked the purse away again.

As the other men readied the ferry for departure, the captain showed them to the deck. "Lucky you're crossing today," he told them. "Not but three days ago these shores were flooded, the waters as mad as old King Aerys. _Har!_ All smooth now, though."

"Like dragonglass," the Hound said.

"Aye," agreed the captain. Then they set off.

Sansa stood alone near the ferry's rail and stared down at the rush of water churning beneath the boat's easy glide. Behind her the Hound stayed with Stranger, petting him gently and talking soothingly into his ear. For a moment she wished he would make the effort to be so kind with her. Then she wondered why it even mattered.

Finally on the other side of the river, the Hound deemed it best to stop at an inn for the night. "We'll take supper and a room," he told the innkeep. While waiting for the meal, they sat down at a table near the stairs with a flagon of Arbor gold.

The Hound had already finished two quick glasses of the wine while Sansa still sipped on her first. His freshly inebriated eyes didn't stray once from her face. "Have some more," he told her, grabbing her glass so he could fill it up. He poured the wine until her cup was full to the rim. Setting the flagon down again, he sighed. "Gods," he said breathlessly. "Wine on an empty stomach..."

Sansa carefully lifted her full glass up to her lips and took a small sip. It didn't taste very good, but if it helped to ease some of the tension squeezing her insides, she was willing to bear its bitterness. "Are we going to Winterfell?" she asked after a while.

"Winterfell?" He chuckled cheerlessly into his cup and took another drink. "No, I'm taking you to the Twins."

_The Twins? _Her heart sunk. "But why?"

He grimaced at her. "There's to be a wedding. Seems your uncle's going to marry a Frey." That made him laugh miserably. "Gods, I'm a better suitor than a Frey. Even _you_ couldn't argue that, little bird."

Sansa frowned and stared into her cup. "A wedding," was all she said.

The Hound nodded. "If we hurry you may even get there in time for the feast. You'll be rid of me soon enough." He threw back whatever wine remained in his glass and ordered a second flagon.

Their meals came with the wine, a thick stew with meat and bits of carrots, served with fresh baked bread. They both ate hungrily, neither one of them speaking a word. The Hound finished his stew quickly and then sat back and drank, watching her as she ate. She ignored his cold unreadable eyes. When she finished eating, he reached across the table to fill up her glass again, despite its already being near full. Some of the wine spilled out over the rim. "Bloody hell," he grumbled. "Wine's gone to my head." He shoved the glass towards her, spilling more of the drink onto the table. "This is my first time drinking since that night you cut your hand, little bird. Remember that?" He smiled unhappily.

"Yes," she murmured.

The Hound took another long drink and then slammed his empty cup down on the table. His eyes never left her face. "And remember when you kissed me? Gods, that was sweet."

Sansa stared down into her glass. Her face suddenly felt very hot. She said nothing.

That made the Hound laugh. "Careful," he warned drunkenly, "with cheeks burning like that, a face could end up looking like mine." He laughed again, though entirely without joy. He ordered another flagon of wine. "We'll drink this upstairs," he said to her when it arrived.

As they climbed the narrow staircase, the Hound laid a large hand on her shoulder. While Sansa shivered at his touch, she did not dare protest it. They climbed the stairs in silence, all the way up to the inn's top third-floor storey. Their room was smaller than a dungeon cell at Winterfell, she thought immediately. There wasn't even a chair for sitting on. Sandor Clegane locked them inside and eyed her closely. The only light in the room came from the oil lamp hanging on the wall. She shivered again, feeling cold.

The Hound sat back comfortably on the bed and sighed. "This is just like our first night together." The full flagon of wine was in his hand. He took a drink from it and glanced at her. "Sit down." The tone of his voice frightened her almost as much as the cold hatred burning in his eyes. She sat on the far edge of the bed with her back to him. The ancient wooden bedframe groaned under his weight as he shifted. Sansa felt his heavy hand on her shoulder, and then he roughly pulled her back towards him.

Neither one of them said a word for a long time after that. The muted shouts and laughter of the inn's patrons filtered up the staircase from the ground floor, making Sansa feel very lonely. Beside her the Hound continued to drink his wine straight from the flagon. He offered to share, but she declined. The entire time they lay there, his eyes were on her face.

"I'd only ever kissed whores before you," he said suddenly, breaking the droning silence in the room. Sansa glanced at him. _He's so drunk,_ she thought nervously. _If he tries anything, I'll scream. _"Gods, that was a long time ago." He spoke casually, as though he were talking about the coming winter. "Before I knew any better. You see, little bird, whores aren't looking to be kissed. Especially not by the likes of me. Ha, but then _no_ woman ever wanted this face, neither whore nor highborn. Not like I blame them." His grey eyes glistened as cold as ice. "But you, little bird… _yours _was the first kiss I never had to pay for. Imagine that." This time he didn't try to disguise the bitterness in his tone. He took another full swallow of wine.

Sansa shifted uneasily. "Please," she said softly, "it isn't right of you to talk of such things..."

The Hound suddenly slammed his fist down into the mattress. "No, little bird, it _isn't_ right, is it? Nor was it right of you to deceive me."

She flinched. "Deceive you?"

"Stop repeating what you hear. Yes, _deceive me_." The sudden fury in his eyes was alive and wild, and it made Sansa flinch again; how she _hated_ those eyes. They didn't leave her face for a moment as he gulped down some more wine. He angrily wiped the dribble away with his hand. "You really think I'd have come back for you had I known it meant nothing?"

"It… it wasn't _nothing_."

"A lie. I hate liars."

"I'm _not_ lying." The memory of Gendry's jolting body flashed in her mind. She thought about the Hound's sword dripping with blood. Nausea churned in her belly. "Would you hear the truth, then? I'll tell you, even though you won't believe me." She looked at the ugly burns on his face. "You act as though it's those scars people hate, but you're wrong. It's _you_ people don't like. You're cruel and mean and so terribly ruthless." Sansa felt tears gathering in her eyes. "You killed Gendry and then moved on as though it didn't matter. He lay there, a boy, dead from _your _blade... All you cared about was gold."

Beside her the Hound was very still. His eyes were on her face, impossible to read. "Is that so?" he grumbled at last. His mouth twitched and he drank some more wine.

"It's the truth." She calmly wiped the tears from her cheeks. She felt better somehow, even though nothing had changed.

"Cruel and mean." Sandor frowned and then carefully set the flagon of wine down next to the bed. "And _so terribly ruthless,_ as you say." He sniffed casually. "Piss on that, little bird. You didn't think me so _terribly ruthless_ when I saved you from that mob. Remember that? Of course you do. It's only kissing me you've forgotten about."

"You're _drunk_," she said.

"Ha! You call _this_ drunk?" He grabbed the flagon again and had another long drink, grumbling contentedly as the wine went down his throat. "This isn't drunk. You want to know drunk?" She didn't, but he told her anyway. "Drunk was when I came to your chambers the night of the Blackwater. Surely you remember _that_."

"Of course I do," she said stiffly. "You held a dagger to my throat."

"Aye, I did, didn't I?" His eyes slowly wandered down to her neck, lingering there for a moment before trailing back up to her face. "You don't know the real reason I was there, though."

"You... you wanted a song."

He barked out a laugh. "Gods, you truly are a stupid bird if you believe that. No, it wasn't for a bloody _song_. I was there to fuck you. Ruin you. Maybe even leave you for dead." The harsh words hit her harder than a slap. The Hound laughed again, the awful sound echoing sharp inside her ears. "How's that for truth?"

"You're lying," she trembled.

"No, little bird, I don't lie. I'm not like you."

Sansa's lips quivered. She feared she might cry again. _No,_ she told herself. _That's what he wants._ She stared hard at him, despising the coldness in his eyes. "Why didn't you, then?" Her voice made her sound much more confident than she felt. "If _ruining _me is what you wanted, why did you save me instead?"

His mouth twitched. "Could be I'm not as cruel as you think. My brother on the other hand… well, you remember the story I told you." She nodded, and the Hound grimaced slightly. "I took your bloody song, aye, but that was enough. I was so drunk I believed maybe you'd _give_ me what I wanted, in time."

"My maidenhood," she whispered, her voice shaking. She no longer cared about discretion with the Hound; _he_ certainly didn't care about such things.

"Piss on your maidenhood, too," he said. His speech was slurred from the wine. "I can pay for a maiden's cunt, should I ever want one."

"Then what…?"

"_You_," he rasped, looking her straight in the face as he said it. After a moment a hollow laugh rumbled inside his chest. "Gods be good, you were right, I _am _drunk." The bed gave another groan as he suddenly pushed himself up. Whatever wine was left in the flagon he drank down in one long unbroken swallow. "Beg your pardon, my lady," he slurred with sardonic courteousness, "I need a privy."

The Hound momentarily fumbled with the bar across the door and then staggered out into the hall. Laughter filtered up the stairs, but Sansa was too numb to take notice. It wasn't until Sandor had stumbled out of sight that she realised she'd been holding her breath. She let it out in a long shaky _whoosh_. _He was mocking me,_ she thought, hugging her knees into her chest. The room felt very empty without him there. "_A hound will die for you, but never lie to you." _The words suddenly blazed across her mind as though she'd heard them yesterday.

She didn't have very much time to think about it. The Hound soon reappeared in the doorway and stumbled into the room. He barred the door shut and then slunk drunkenly down onto the bed, where he closed his eyes and almost immediately fell asleep.

The oil lamp still burned on the wall above them, casting its dull glow down upon the bed. Sansa sat awake for a very long time, her mind reeling. She stared down at Sandor Clegane's face. It was in no way a pleasant face to look upon, just as he was in no way a pleasant man to be around. _I prayed for him once, for his rage to be gentled. _Her prayers hadn't been answered, though; he was still the angriest person she had ever known. And yet something inside of her stirred for him.

Time dragged on. Gradually the laughter from the main floor quieted down, until there was nothing left but the subtle sounds of the night. Beside her the Hound snored lightly, his expression softened by the peaceful spell of sleep. Sansa carefully brushed away a few loose strands of dark hair from his face and her fingertips accidentally grazed the knotted tissue of his scars. She paused for a moment before she decided to continue; she ran her fingers gently across his ruined cheek, touching every bump and crevice. In his sleep, the Hound didn't even flinch.

Only yesterday Gendry had still been alive. Somehow it seemed a lot longer than one day. Everything about her life before fleeing King's Landing felt like a long time ago. _Soon I'll be with Mother and Robb,_ she told herself. _Things might even be normal again someday._

Sansa settled down into the bed. Next to her the Hound slept quietly. She touched his face, waiting for her stomach to churn with revulsion. It never did. _I'm sorry, _she silently told her father and Gendry and anyone else who might be listening, _I can't help it... _

Feeling tired at last, she reached for the oil lamp. A moment after she extinguished the flame, Sandor Clegane stirred in his sleep. "Sansa," he sighed.

She closed her eyes. And she smiled.


	9. Chapter 9

Their morning was spent riding through foggy swamps and cold grey lowlands. It wasn't until recently that they'd managed to find their way out from the dampness and into woods. The travel had been terribly slow going. Stranger had stopped for a drink as often as he was able, never in any hurry to quench his unremitting thirst. While Sansa grew increasingly impatient by the frequent delays, the Hound showed no irritation at all; not once did he urge his horse along. _I am so close to Mother. _With every moment that passed, her anxious anticipation seemed to double; simply being _close_ was not good enough.

It was barely midday when the Hound called a halt. Trees were surrounding them, tall redwoods that seemed to rise up into the heavens, maybe even beyond. Lush ferns blanketed the forest floor, and a soft layer of autumn moss dabbled the smooth faces of boulders even more ancient than the trees. "Why are we stopping?" she asked. The plush fertile ground was cool and pleasantly soft under her feet.

"Stranger needs rest," the Hound grumbled. "Been riding him too hard." Turning his back to her, he gave his horse a friendly scratch.

Sansa glanced into the courser's biting black eyes. _He _does_ look tired_, she thought. It was an unnatural look for the angry beast, and she found herself pitying him. Never before had she considered Stranger a regular horse, but exhaustion, hunger and long days made him seem less fierce than ever. His head turned then, and when his eyes met hers they flashed wildly. It was Sansa who looked away first, still frightened of the angry horse even after all this time.

The entire morning had been dismally overcast, but for once the rain threatening to fall remained inside the heavy grey clouds. The world was oddly quiet when they'd left the inn at daybreak, and the stillness did not lift as the day wore on. Sansa wasn't sure if the Hound noticed as well. She didn't bother asking him. Ever since waking up he'd kept his eyes downcast and his mouth shut. _He remembers,_ she'd realised very early into the day. They both did. There was nothing left to say.

Sansa sighed and looked up through the canopy of autumn leaves, futilely searching for the sun. Stranger snuffled nearby. She glanced at him just as his eyes drooped shut and wondered if they were already done riding for the day. A very small part of her hoped so; sharing a saddle with the Hound had become awkward. _At least he hasn't started drinking again. _Even though he'd had his wineskin refilled at the inn, he hadn't yet taken a sip.

Mostly the break made her restless, though; a reunion with her mother was so very close! It was unfair that she should be made to wait any longer than she already had. Impatience slowly itched away at her. She glowered at Sandor. _Soon enough I'll never have to see you again. _That thought left her feeling more lonely than it did glad, and a tickle of shame lingered in its wake.

There was nothing to do but sit there. From time to time she would steal quick, careful glances his way. She thought about the night before. Her name—her _real_ name—had been softer than baby's breath as it fell from his lips. _"Sansa,"_ she remembered, shuddering warmly and closing her eyes. _I'm not just some stupid little bird after all._ Up until that moment a part of her had often wondered if Sansa Stark _did_ in fact die in King's Landing. Now she knew. Some of the heaviness in her heart lifted away. _"Sansa."  
_

"Here," the Hound grunted at her, the sudden harsh scrape of his voice interrupting her sweet reverie. Her eyes shot open just in time to catch the hard stub of bread he lobbed her way.

"Thank you," she muttered flatly. Slouched against the base of an old willow tree, the Hound didn't look at her, let alone reply. He ate in silence, his deadened eyes staring out at nothing.

Sansa chewed her bread slowly, wanting to make the meagre meal last as long as possible. _Soon enough I will be with Mother, and warm in a featherbed. _The thought of a soft bed so near was enough to melt some of the ice in her bones. _I'll never be hungry again._

The Hound stood up and went to the stream to splash himself with water. The way his dripping hair stuck to the side of his face allowed Sansa a rare glimpse of his ruined ear. For a moment she almost looked away, ashamed that she could still be so repulsed by the sight of him. She stopped herself, though, when she remembered how the scars had felt beneath her fingertips; tough and sinewy in some spots, strangely soft in others. _"It's only skin,"_ she'd once told him in reference to his hideous burns. That was a long time ago, though. As Sandor pulled off his tunic and began unwinding the dressing on his arm, his terrible new burns were slowly revealed, and it was very difficult to think of _them _as "only skin."

Sansa didn't offer to help him. Instead she finished her bread in silence, averting her eyes as Sandor tenderly sponged his arm with a damp scrap of cloth. There was a dull ache inside of her chest, one that grew with every second she did not go to him. Finally, feeling too anxious to sit idly by doing nothing, Sansa stood up. He glanced at her. "There's some berries just over that hill," she said, pointing. "At the tree line. I saw them when we came into the forest. I thought I could pick some for us."

His mouth twitched. Sansa's gaze momentarily flickered down to the exposed burns on his arm. The blisters and raw flesh glistened slick under the thin sheen of water he'd just sprinkled there. Her stomach clenched and she quickly looked away. "Even more of me you can't stand," he rasped angrily. When Sansa glanced at him again, his lips were drawn tight in a miserable grimace. "Do what you will."

With an ache that went all the way to her bones, Sansa slowly turned away from him. She walked dazedly through the trees, pausing every now and again to absorb the quiet peacefulness. Beneath the thicket of ferns, the forest floor was littered with fallen leaves that crunched softly under every step. At the crest of the hill there was a small patch of autumn wildflowers, as yellow as Lannister hair. Thoughts of Joffrey suddenly flashed across her mind. She imagined his fury upon learning of her disappearance with Sandor Clegane. A looming sense of foreboding gripped her stomach walls tight.

As she made her way down the other side of the hill, she pondered the rumours that would've surely sprouted at court about herself and the Hound. _Would they have thought us lovers?_ she wondered, her stomach knotting some. Gossip spread like wildfire in King's Landing, and burned just as viciously. _What if such a rumour were to reach Mother and Robb?_ Shame went through her, and so did dread. What if her family believed something so terrible to be true? What if they disowned her? _No, _she quickly told herself, _they would never do such a thing. _Still, she couldn't help but wonder.

The density of the trees thinned out as Sansa at last came upon the berry bushes. Her mouth nearly watered at the sight of the colourful little fruits. In front of her sprawled a thousand valleys as far as the eye could see. Behind her loomed the lush redwood forest with its soft mossy ground and safe curtain of trees. The sky overhead was dark and grey, and ripe for rain. Far off in the distance she heard a very faint rumble of thunder. _I hope we're spared that storm,_ she thought, frowning at the daunting swirl of black clouds upon the horizon.

Sansa used the Hound's tattered brown cloak as a basket for the berries she collected. She remembered the moment he'd first wrapped the smelly old thing around her. _Another life,_ she thought numbly, for what felt like the hundredth time. _Had I my own words, they might just be that._

As her tally of berries gradually grew, so did her mind wander. _"Sansa," _sighed the Hound again and again. The memory of it sent the warmest of shudders through her. _I am Sansa Stark,_ she told herself, and not for the first time that day. _I am Sansa Stark. _She smiled, if only slightly.

The thunder continued to rumble in the distance. At one point she saw a quick fork of lightning crash down from the heavens, but it was still too far away to pose any threat. Sansa ate a berry, the ripe juice bursting between her teeth. _I don't call him anything,_ she realised after a while. Once she'd ceased referring to the Hound as _ser,_ she no longer knew how to address him and so had settled on nothing at all. _It must be lonely, being no one. _The thought of that made her feel very sad for him. She wondered if he'd ever noticed. She hoped not.

More thunder rumbled far away, and a horse whinnied in response. Chewing on another plump, ripe berry, she thought of Stranger's angry black eyes. Swallowing the berry, she lost herself deep inside her own thoughts.

The valley's thick autumn heather looked dull beneath the bleak sprawl of grey clouds. Popping another berry into her mouth, Sansa stared out across the rolling hills. She felt strangely exposed sitting beyond the cover of the trees, even though they stood close enough behind her. She hadn't realised how accustomed she'd grown to the veil of protection they offered. A horse whinnied again, and this time the sound startled her. _It's just Stranger, _she told herself calmly. _He's __being moody as always. The thunder's probably making him nervous. _She remembered the way the hounds back in Winterfell used to cower and howl during bad summer storms.

Sansa chewed another berry and watched a flash of lightning crackle in the distance. "Sandor," she whispered suddenly, her voice so soft that even she barely heard it. Just like the first time she'd said his name aloud, it sounded very strange on her tongue. "Sandor," she tried again, louder this time. It did not feel any more natural. She frowned and reached for another berry.

The sharp and sudden whinny of a horse snapped her out of her wandering thoughts. A man's shout rose up from the valley, and it was terribly near. _Too near._ Sansa froze. A moment later a horse's head came up from behind a dip in the undulating valley. Her heart dropped to her toes. Stumbling hastily, she barely had time to duck behind a slender young redwood. All the berries she'd collected scattered to the ground. The trees were so thin where she stood that she didn't even dare blink.

The horse and rider seemed to be breaking for her. A hundred fleeting thoughts screamed at her, each one as lasting as a drop of rain. _He'll spot me if I try to run._ Her breath was strangled inside her throat. _He's already seen me. _The rider was so terribly close! _I can't just stand here_. There was no other choice; she knew she would have to run. Panic overtook her. Her knees locked. _Run!_ The pounding of hooves had become louder than the pounding of her heart. _Move between the trees, _she told herself._ Carefully. _

But then three more riders suddenly appeared from behind the hill. They were shouting tauntingly, almost playfully, chasing down the first rider. It seemed a harmless game, but Sansa knew it was anything but. A thrill of fear went up her spine. Just as she went to take her first step to run, a strong arm grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back against an impossibly large body. A hand went over her mouth before she had the chance to scream. "Don't move," the Hound rasped into her ear. They stood there as still as stone.

The lone rider was so dangerously near that Sansa could almost make out the terrified whites of his eyes. She felt her insides loosening. Her whimper of fear was muffled against Sandor's strong hand. Just then, the horse in pursuit suddenly screamed and reared, casting the rider from its back. As the horse fell onto its side, Sansa saw an arrow buried deep in its leg. She squirmed against the Hound. "Keep still," he whispered fiercely, squeezing her tight. "Close your eyes if you must."

However badly she might have wanted to, it was impossible to look away. The rider's helm flew off as he crashed to the ground, and his arms immediately shot up in surrender as his pursuers encircled him. That's when Sansa recognised the sigil upon his plate armour. _He's from the north... _

One of the attackers drew his sword and laughed with hearty satisfaction. Sansa held her breath, certain that the men were close enough to hear even a sigh. As she braced herself for what would come next, she began to tremble. The Hound's arm tightened around her.

"Mercy!" the fallen rider pleaded, the word bursting from him in a breathless gasp. Beside him his horse was whinnying in pain, an awful penetrating sound that screamed deep inside her ears. "Please!"

"Would that I could," chortled the man whose sword was drawn. He stood over the grounded rider and shrugged indifferently. "'Kill them all,' we were told. 'Show no mercy.' Those were our commands." He smiled, revealing an ugly set of crooked teeth. Thunder rumbled in the distance. "King Joffrey doesn't take kindly to traitors." Sansa's eyes went wide as the sword suddenly plunged into the rider's face, breaking through his skull with a sickening crunch. A wave of dizziness swept through her; were the Hound not holding her so tight, she would surely have collapsed.

When the sword was pulled back out, the dead man's head lolled unnaturally to the side. "Bloody wolves," his killer growled, wiping his blade clean. _Wolves? _Sansa suddenly noticed the silvery blue sigil each of the three men donned. Numbness thrummed through her bones. _They're of House Frey. _"Go on. Let's see what wolves carry in war."

The other two men crouched next to the fallen soldier and went to work robbing his corpse. Sheathing his sword, the remaining Frey stared out across the valley, surveying the storm that loomed in the distance. The Hound held Sansa so close that she wasn't sure whose hammering heart it was she was feeling. _Don't look this way,_ she prayed. _Please don't come in here. _While Sandor Clegane was skilled with a blade, she didn't want to find out how he fared against three opponents at once.

"Wolf was riding the wrong way," one of the men laughed after a while, standing up and giving the dead soldier a lazy kick. "Bloody fool."

"Should we hide the body?"

"What for? He was a traitor, same as all the rest. Let it be a message, should anyone happen upon him."

"Aye," agreed the first Frey, the one who'd carried out the punishment. "Besides, the wolves'll be at him soon enough. Ha, a fitting end, that!" He chortled, and the other two men smiled.

"What about the horse?"

"Cut its throat and be done with it. It's of no use to us now. You got its leg. Look."

"Too bad," one of the Freys said. "It's a nice horse." He knelt down and drew his dagger.

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut tight just as the poor creature let out a piercing scream. It didn't take long for it to fall as silent as its dead master. Soon after that there was the sound of retreating hooves. She dared to open her eyes, and watched as the three men rode out slowly across the valley. The Hound's hand slowly slid away from her mouth. She allowed herself to breath again.

It wasn't until the three Freys had disappeared from sight did Sandor let his other arm fall from around her. Sansa spoke first. "What was that about?" Her voice shook. She glanced back at him. He was staring out across the valley and looking more troubled than she had ever seen him. "What happened?"

His mouth twitched as he slowly shook his head. "Come on, little bird," was all he said. He laid a hand upon her shoulder and gently steered her back into the trees, his eyes far, far away.

Sansa's thoughts were reeling. _"Kill them all."_ That troubled her more than anything else, even more than having watched such a gruesome death. A sickening ache swirled inside of her stomach. Beside her Sandor Clegane had fallen into a deep, ruminative silence. Sansa wished he would say something, _anything_. His reticence at that moment was a torment.

But he didn't say anything, at least not about what they'd just witnessed. "We're riding out," he told her as soon as they reached Stranger. The horse whickered his discontent at being disrupted, but offered no further protestations after that.

The pace was terribly slow. Stranger was tired, and the Hound deep in thought. Sansa sat in in the saddle alone. Sandor took the reins and walked in front of his weary horse, sparing the poor creature the burden of his added weight. The storm that had been brewing in the distance did not come their way, and eventually the clouds even broke open to reveal a sharp blue sky behind them. Travelling through the thick trees, neither one of them spoke a word. They kept going long after the sun had set and there was nothing left to see but the black of night.

When at last they stopped it was very late. The night was incredibly cold. "No fire," the Hound said when Sansa complained of the aching chill in her bones. Mind reeling, she quietly wrapped herself up in her furs and lay down. The Hound sat with his back against an old tree, his sword placed gently across his lap.

Lying on the cold ground, Sansa watched him. Ever since stopping he'd been staring off at nothing, lost in his own thoughts. "That rider," she said after a while, hesitantly, not sure she wanted confirmation of what she already knew. "He was from the north, wasn't he?"

Sandor Clegane glanced her way. His eyes were still troubled; she could see that even in the faint moonlight that slipped through the leaves. "Aye," he said softly. His giant hand tenderly gripped the handle of his sword for a moment. The burned half of his mouth twitched.

The uneasy feeling inside of her stomach grew. Sansa nervously bit her lip. "Why was he run down by those men? They were of House Frey." The night seemed to grow darker then, having said that aloud. A cold wind suddenly swept through the trees—_shhhhh_ whispered the leaves in response. She shivered. "You said my uncle was marrying a Frey." Her voice was so quiet that the words were almost lost in the wind.

The Hound paused before answering. Then he shook his head in confusion. For a few moments he studied her face, as though contemplating what to say. "I don't know," was what he finally settled on. _The truth. _

The solemnity in his tone is what frightened her the most. She pulled the furs up tight to her chin and wondered. "I don't know either," she whispered, too soft for him to hear.

After that Sansa's mind wandered to very dark places. Apart from the moon's subtle glow, there was nothing around them but the heavy black of night. Every now and again a gust of wind would cut through the leaves, and she would spot the twinkling of stars high up above, but other than that, there was nothing but darkness. Were it not for the Hound's raspy breathing, she might have believed herself to be all alone. "Sandor?" she eventually asked.

She heard him shift slightly against the tree. But he did not answer her, at least not right away. A thick silence loomed between them, one that seemed to drag on for a very long time. "What is it?" he said at last, his tone strangely soft.

"It's about yesterday... and what I said to you."

Silence. Not even the wind spoke then.

Sansa nervously picked at an unseen stitch on one of her furs. "When I said I was glad to be rid of you, I didn't mean it, not truly. I was angry, that's all. I spoke in haste, without thinking. I'm sorry if I hurt you."

She was once again met with silence.

In addition to feeling nervous, a prickle of agitation now stung her as well. "Did you hear me?" she had to ask.

Another pause. But then he did answer her, very quietly. "Aye." Sansa waited, but he said nothing more.

It took a long time for her to fall asleep. Her mind continued wandering to terrible places, making her skin tingle with paranoid dread. _"Kill them all," _the voice of the Frey echoed inside her ears again and again. _"Kill them all."_ Sansa wondered who _them _referred to. A part of her already had a pretty good idea, but an even bigger part of her refused to believe it.

Without a fire to keep them warm, Sansa shivered beneath her furs for the whole night. She eventually fell asleep and dreamed, loose erratic dreams that made no sense. In one dream she was a bird, flying high above the trees and looking down upon the darkened valleys. The air was cold, yet that did not matter one bit because she was free. Her stomach swirled at the heights she dared herself to climb... higher and higher and higher until the world vanished to black beneath her. And then the darkness became too much. Sansa woke up suddenly, breathless and afraid. "Go back to sleep," the Hound rasped softly from the shadows. He hadn't moved from his spot against the tree. She closed her eyes again and slept.

The next time she woke, the sun was starting to rise. Sandor was awake, quietly readying Stranger for another day. Sometime during the night he'd changed the dressing on his burned arm. Sansa wondered if he'd slept at all, but the ragged and worn look on his face did not leave her guessing long. Sitting up, she silently rolled her furs, feeling guilty for not having offered to keep watch. Without saying a word to each other, they rode out. A familiar silence lingered between them.

It was a cool morning, and damp. A heavy fog hung in the air, cloaking the world in a smoky blue mist. When they emerged from the woods she felt the Hound's body tense slightly against her own. _He's just as uncertain as I am. _It made her own already fragile nerves crumble. It was quiet, almost too quiet. Sansa concentrated on the gentle cloud of mist that left her lips each time she exhaled. It was all she could do to calm herself. They rode along in slow silence.

By late morning the fog had lifted, but the thick ceiling of clouds above showed no signs of breaking open. The air stayed cool, the breeze chilly, and she thought it smelled faintly of smoke. The Hound must have thought so too, for after a while he commented on it. "Something's burning. Or was burned." His hands tightened on the reins. Every step felt like a cautious one. The wind whistled past them in haunting, lonely gusts. _"Kill them all," _echoed a voice inside her head. _"Bloody wolves."_

"Let's stop," she said suddenly. "Please. I have a bad feeling." The Hound didn't answer her, but he did give a slight nod and complied with her request. They dismounted in the dip of a valley, hidden by hills and trees and large flattened rocks.

There was only a small heel of bread remaining, and Sandor Clegane shared it with her the same way he always did. He ate slowly, his eyes distant and troubled. Sansa finished her piece in four bites. Her stomach still rumbled afterwards.

After finishing his bread, the Hound sat staring down at a small smooth stone he'd picked up. He absently caressed it between his thumb and forefinger, his mouth turned down in a brooding frown. Sansa remembered what he'd told her about roaming the north after she was with her family again. A tightness crept into her chest. _"This is no world for broken things, little bird."_ That conversation was so long ago, yet it still made her very lonely to think about. Eyes downcast, he continued to turn the stone gently between his fingers. _I will personally ask Robb if he can join his guard_, she thought. It was the very least she could do...

Eventually the Hound glanced up at her. "We should continue," he grumbled, tossing the flat rock to the ground. When he stood up, his gaze carefully skimmed the landscape all around them. In the light of day his scars were deep and terrible, just as hideous as always. Sansa looked at the burned half of his mouth, remembering the feel of those craggy lips against her own. _They were surprisingly soft._ She tingled warmly. At that moment she yearned for his comfort... for his touch. _"Sansa," _he sighed in her memory, and the warmth she felt grew. Something very pleasant stirred inside of her when his strong hands helped her into the saddle, and it began to boil when he climbed up behind her.

As the day wore on the clouds did eventually lift, revealing a sun that shone bright and oddly cheerful. "What's that smell?" she asked at one point. It smelled very familiar, though she could not quite place it.

Sandor sniffed softly behind her. "Death."

A short while later they came across the dying man. He was leaned up against a tree, bleeding and sore, and he moaned when he saw them approach. Sandor slid out of the saddle and knelt down next to him.

The man could barely keep his eyes open. His shoulder was swollen and bloody, and he reeked like he was already dead. Sansa recognised the smell now. She carefully stepped closer to him. He was begging the Hound for some wine.

Sandor's mouth twitched. Wineskin in hand, he uncorked the cap and then passed his wine over. "Don't spill. That's all I've got." His eyes never left the man's face.

When he finished drinking, the man weakly passed the skin back and sighed. "You're the king's dog," he wheezed breathlessly. Dying.

"My own dog now." Sandor recapped the wineskin. "I can give you the gift of mercy," he said, nervously glancing at Sansa for a quick moment. "Should you want it."

The man did want it. The Hound went to unsheathe his dagger.

"Wait," Sansa cut in suddenly. The man's eyes found hers; they were dull things, and fraught with fever. Death had already claimed them. "Please, tell us what happened to you..."

The man coughed weakly. "A wolf." He wheezily told them of her uncle's wedding at the Twins, and of the celebrations that took place afterwards. And then he spoke of all that came next. "A bloody massacre," he whispered finally. "Death everywhere. Lord Frey made sure he got them all. The wolf king and his mother... they're all dead."

Before Sansa could respond, the Hound's dagger was out. He quickly slid the blade into the man's chest, very smooth and clean, right through the heart. The man died immediately. Sansa watched numbly as Sandor carefully wiped blood from the dagger's sharp steel, his face creased with a troubled frown.

She was too afraid to ask. The truth was there, yet she did not wish to know it. "All dead?" Her voice was barely above a whisper. She hadn't meant to say anything. _I don't want to know!_ Careful to avoid her gaze, the Hound slid his blade back into the scabbard on his belt. His mouth twitched as he plucked the dead man's purse from his person, and then took his dagger as well. "What was he talking about?" It was a stupid question to ask. She already knew the answer. Still, she desperately clutched the Hound's thick arm, her fingertips digging into his skin, as though somehow he could change what she'd heard. Her hands felt so incredibly small. Perhaps she had misunderstood the man's story…

His frown deepening, Sandor finally looked at her. He opened his mouth to say something but then at the last moment stopped himself. His eyes fell away from her face. With a gentle shake of his head, he said nothing at all. That was more than enough.

"No," she said vehemently. "_No! _That man... he was delirious. He was _lying_. It's a trap." Ramblings, she knew. Desperate ramblings, none of which made any sense. She hadn't forgotten what those three Freys had said after killing the northman. _I'm the delirious one. _And yet it was all she could do to pray that none of it was true. "We have to go to the Twins," she said suddenly. "You promised. You... you have to help my mother... my brother. _Please!_"

The Hound's face twisted painfully. After staring at the man for another moment, he turned away. "Come on, little bird," he said, resting his hand gently on her back. Although her limbs felt like water and her head spun dizzily, she let him steer her back to Stranger.

They rode away from the man, but the stink of death still lingered. The silence between them weighed almost as heavy as her heart.

Where they were going, Sansa didn't know. She didn't want to know. What did it matter? Everyone she'd ever loved was dead. Inside she was numb. And cold. So very cold, even though the afternoon had turned warm and the sun was bright and shining.

They did not stop riding until nightfall. The Hound had led them deep into some woods and found them a tiny little glade within the trees. "Can we light a fire?" she asked once Stranger had been settled down and hobbled. It was too dark to see the Hound's face, but if she tried she could make out his silhouette, a large mass of black within the night.

He reached into a saddlebag and then passed her some of her furs. "I won't risk it." His voice was oddly gentle. Sansa curled up on the ground, pulling the furs across her. She shut her eyes tight, squeezing out the tears.

But she could not sleep. The Hound was sitting up beside her. She could hear the gentle rasping of his breath, the only sound in the night. Sansa could not stop shivering. A sob suddenly escaped her. _"All dead. Lord Frey made sure he got them all." _Tears drizzled from her eyes and her whole body shook. She was so cold. Her teeth began to chatter. Another sob caught in her throat. "It's so cold," she whispered, every inch of her trembling.

The Hound shifted, and a moment later Sansa felt him stretch out on the ground beside her. She shivered as a gust of wind whistled through the trees. His arm went around her, and then he gently pulled her into his body. At first she froze at the contact, but then she melted at it, and finally she let it consume her. It was all she had left in the world. The last Stark of Winterfell, her parents were gone, and her siblings as well; even her home was gone. All she had now was the Hound. None of it felt real.

He let her cry in his arms that night. She did not know how long her tears lasted, but when she finally fell asleep it was out of emptiness and nothing more. Her dreams were once again erratic and fast. Sansa was flying high above the world, free of her troubles. Everything was dark. Wolves howled in the distance, and she wished she were one of them. They were a pack, a family. She was no more than a little bird, lost and all alone.

In the morning when she woke up, the Hound was no longer beside her. For a moment she thought she'd only dreamed his strong arms around her. But, no; she remembered the warmth of his body all too well. And in his absence she was cold again. Cold and alone.

As they rode out, not even the bright morning sun could lift the numbness inside of her. "Where are we going?" she asked eventually, even though it didn't really matter. Wherever their destination was, it wouldn't be Winterfell, nor would her mother be there. The terrible truth of her situation was very slowly seeping into her. Sansa wondered if maybe she'd be better off dead too.

"You have an aunt in the Eyrie," the Hound replied. "Could be she'll want to ransom you." His voice sounded dull and far away.

Hearing that made Sansa's heart tighten. "I don't want to go to the Eyrie," she protested, but he didn't seem to hear her. Or maybe he had and simply chose not to respond.

Only when the afternoon light began to wane in the west did the Hound finally decide to stop for the day. Stranger took them into a small forest clearing, where moss grew upon the wall of rocks encircling them. Large looming willow trees rose up high above their heads, their leaves sighing softly in the breeze. "We'll be safe here for the night," the Hound said as he helped her down from the horse.

Feeling beaten and hollow, Sansa slunk down against one of the rocks. Sandor hobbled Stranger and then came and stood over her. "Here," he rasped, holding out to her the dagger he'd taken from the dying soldier.

"I don't want that," she muttered.

"Take it. There may come a day when you need it."

Sansa stared numbly at the boiled leather sheath that encased the stolen blade. When she made no effort to take it from him, he dropped it at her feet.

"Wear that like you would your smallclothes," he told her, turning away. "Always, and out of sight."

Sansa hardly noticed his absence when he disappeared a short while later to go gather some deadwood for a fire. The sky grew steadily darker, and the winds increasingly haunting. Eventually she did reach for the dagger, holding it close against her side. When Sandor returned he not only had wood with him, but a dead rabbit as well. He silently set about preparing a cooking pit and skinning their meal-to-be.

They sat in silence as their supper roasted on the spit he'd made. When the rabbit was at last ready, the Hound tore it in two pieces and held out half her way. Juices dribbled from the fresh meat. "I'm not hungry," she told him. But he gruffly insisted she eat. All it took was a bite for her to realise how badly she'd been needing food. She ate the rabbit greedily, not caring at all about the grease as it trickled down her chin.

At last the fire burned down to cinders. Sansa readied her furs for the night. "I'll take first watch," she told the Hound. Although he hadn't once complained, she knew he'd been awake for almost two whole days now. The truth of that was plain on his tired face.

He gazed at her. His eyelids were drooping. "No one will find us here," he rasped. "Go to sleep."

Sansa lay down and watched as the fire's embers slowly died out, one by one. The Hound lay across from her, his head tilted back against the mossy rocks and looking anything but comfortable. Loneliness and sorrow ate away at her. She wished he would hold her again, the same way he had the night before, but he'd given no indication that he intended to do so.

Sleep did not come to her. The breeze had a chill in it, and she shivered every time it swept over her. "It's cold," she whispered into the night. She didn't know if the Hound had fallen asleep or not, and it was too dark to tell when she looked his way. "Aren't you cold?" she asked the darkness.

The only answer she received was from the wind. She couldn't stop shivering.

Somewhere nearby an owl hooted, _hoo, hoo, hooo!_ It was too dark to spot it in the trees, though, so she didn't bother trying. Eventually the last of the embers burned down to nothing and shortly thereafter the world became one giant shadow. Sansa searched the sky for the moon or stars, but the clouds were thick and blocked out all light. A sharp wind whistled through the trees, and they shimmied in response, sounding like whitecap waves crashing against ocean rocks.

Her mind began to wander to places darker than the night. The owl hooted again, _hoo, hoo!, _and its lonely cry haunted her ears. _I should be with Mother right now..._ The ache of that thought was enough to make her want to tear her heart out. Her lip quivered. _Will this nightmare never end?_ How badly she longed to wake up back in Winterfell. _There is no Winterfell. Not anymore, not for you. _

Soon the ache of loneliness became too much to bear. Gathering her furs into her arms, Sansa quietly went to where the Hound lay sound asleep. She settled herself down next to him and then carefully pulled the furs across them both. He grumbled at the disturbance. "It's just me," she whispered, carefully nestling into his warm side. She lay her head down against a cold pillow of moss. A few minutes went by. She listened to the winds sweeping through the trees. _Hoo, hoooo, hoo, hoo! _Shivering, she pulled her furs up tight around her chin. Grumbling again, Sandor shifted and slipped his burned arm around her.

The owl hooted some more, closer now. It was such a sad sound, and made the emptiness inside her grow. Sound asleep, the Hound's face was buried in her hair, and his steady breath rasped softly against her ear. Sansa tried to imagine her mother's face or hear her voice, but it had already been so long since they'd last been together that she found herself struggling to remember small details which should have come easily. As Sandor's soft breath continued to tickle her neck, she let the full blow of reality sink in. This was no nightmare. There was no waking up, no home at the end of her journey, no warm featherbed to look forward to. She was truly alone, a wolf without a pack. She craved an escape, for _something_ to carry her away from everything.

The owl hooted again. It was louder this time, much louder. _Hooooo! _She looked about and realised that she could now see through the darkness. _Hoo! _That wasn't the owl; it was _she_ who was hooting. _Hoooo! Hoo, hoo!_ Her eyes scanned her surroundings. Down below she recognised two sleeping figures, one of them looking impossibly large and almost entirely concealing the smaller one. _Hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo!_ she hooted at them. They didn't even stir.

She spread her wings and flew from the branch she'd been perched on, gliding effortlessly through the air and letting the wind whisk her away. Never had anything felt so wonderful, so liberating and free. In the darkness she could see everything far better than she ever could in daylight. She darted between the trees, anticipating every last obstacle, before she swept upwards into the sky. Even though she knew she should hunt, _this _was where she wanted to be, flying higher and higher towards the heavens, away from the world down below. In the night, the world was hers.

Hours and hours seemed to go by, but she did not grow tired of flying. Gradually the sky began to change from black to purple, yet still she continued on. The purple changed to a deep dark blue. _Hoo! _It was a beautiful sight. The colours mingled effortlessly; nothing else had ever looked so natural. She silently glided through the air, a shadow stalking the morning. And then something was suddenly clutching at her. She started to shake. Things whirled all around her. She furiously hooted her displeasure.

Sansa woke up with a start. It was morning, but the sun hadn't yet risen above the horizon. The sky was still dark blue, just like in her dream. "Why did you wake me?" she snapped at the Hound. _Only to make me come back here.  
_

Crouched beside her, he was watching her warily. "You were having a nightmare," he said, his voice rough and grating first thing.

Sansa sat up. "I wasn't," she said. "It was a wonderful dream. I was an owl, flying high above the world." She paused and looked at him. "A _bird_, just like you always call me. Fitting, isn't it?"

He said nothing. His eyes flitted away from her face and his mouth gave a quick twitch. Sansa frowned resentfully, wishing she were still asleep.

Each day was the same after that. Emptiness filled her up so completely that she couldn't _force_ herself to cry. Nor could she laugh, not that the Hound had ever even given her reason to smile. Where they were going, she could not say. She wasn't sure if he was bringing her to the Eyrie to her aunt, or if they were just wandering aimlessly across the realm. It felt like the latter to her. At least she hoped it was the latter.

At night they would make camp and, when it came time for sleep, she would silently nestle into his side and fall asleep in his warm arms. And she would almost always dream about flying. Sometimes she was a small little bird waking up from its slumber, but mostly she dreamed of owls, stalking prey and ruling the night. Those were her favourite dreams, the ones with the owls; owls were hunters, like wolves. They were lonely, too, just like her. Every morning when she woke up, the Hound was never beside her. She didn't know at what point in the night he would disentangle himself from her, but he always did. She didn't bother asking him why. They hardly spoke at all.

Day after day went by, each one the same as the one that came before it. Silence had become a better companion than the Hound. Sometimes he would call an unexpected halt and wordlessly slide out of the saddle. Then he would sit by himself and gaze out at the landscape, looking lost, his brooding thoughts worlds away. Hours would go by, and he'd be so quiet that at times Sansa almost forgot he was there. She didn't mind the long pauses. After all, she had nowhere to go. All she wanted to do was sleep; at least in sleep she could fly.

Many long days had passed since Sansa had learned about her mother and Robb. It was impossible for the numbness in her bones to lift even a little, for death was everywhere. At least once each day they came across some corpse or another. Mostly it was slain soldiers they saw, but far too often they'd also come across the bodies of women or children. Inside, Sansa was just as dead as they were. "Soon enough I'll be one of them," she mumbled once as they rode past a young girl's discarded corpse. "And I'll be glad of it, too."

The Hound tensed behind her when she said that. He rode them away from the girl's body and then quickly reined up to stop Stranger. Without a word he climbed out of the saddle and then helped her down as well. "What did you say back there?" he rasped. He didn't sound angry. There was something else in his tone, something entirely unfamiliar to her.

Sansa hardly had the energy to lift her gaze, so she didn't. "Nothing," she muttered. Now that she thought about it, she knew she shouldn't have spoken such a deep dark desire aloud. _Wishes only come true if they're a secret. _

The Hound's fingers touched her chin, and he gently tilted her face upwards so that she had no other choice but to look at him. His grey eyes were already studying hers, but they lacked the usual cold ferocity she'd grown accustomed to. "Don't ever say that again," he rasped. "Don't even think it."

Sansa suddenly felt very angry. "What concern is it of yours?" She shoved him as hard as she could, wanting him far, far away from her. The effort was for naught, though; he hardly budged at all. "You don't care what happens to me. You're taking me to the Eyrie, you said so yourself. You're going to leave me there by myself."

"Not by yourself. Your aunt is there."

"Aunt." How _bitter_ her voice sounded. How stony and unfamiliar. _Like poison. _"Only by name is she my aunt. No, she's just my mother's sister, a woman who chose to take no part in my brother's cause. She cared naught for the injustice of my father's death, nor that I was Joff's prisoner."

"That may be so," he said carefully, "but she _is_ your family."

"And Ser Gregor is _your_ family," she snapped.

The mention of his brother made the Hound's face harden in anger. "Careful."

Sansa scoffed bitterly. _He's terrified of the Mountain. Even now I can see it as plain as day in his eyes. _She thought about Farlen and how he'd once told her what a dangerous thing it was, provoking a scared dog. _"A dog'll bite if you give him reason." _She frowned. "My aunt won't give you any reward for returning me." While she didn't know this for a fact, some strong inkling in her belly told her it was true. High lords and ladies were all alike.

The Hound's mouth twitched. After a moment he gave an impatient nod. "Then where would you have me take you? Not Riverrun. The Lannisters are no fools in the ways of war. If they haven't already besieged the castle, they will soon enough."

There was no place for her to go, and they both knew it. She was alone and lost. It didn't matter which direction they wandered, no road would take her home. "Can't I just stay with you?"

He flinched as though she'd just slapped him.

"You're the only one I trust," she confessed.

Something in his expression changed then, and whatever anger might have been in his eyes lifted away. But he didn't say anything. He simply stared at her, studying her face as though trying to find the lie within her words. Farlen's voice echoed inside her mind again: _Kick a dog one too many times and he'll never trust again._ Sansa felt deeply ashamed of herself as she remembered the kennelmaster's lesson. She knew that _she'd _kicked the Hound, and perhaps more than once.

"Please," she said, begging now. "Let me stay with you. I'll be good, I promise."

He continued to watch her for a few more moments. "I can't even offer you shelter," he grumbled darkly. "Nor food. And winter _is _coming, little bird... eventually you Starks get it right."

Hearing her house words like that froze her on the spot. A ripple of numbness thrummed inside her bones. Suddenly her knees felt weak and her head began to spin. A strangled noise caught in her throat. The Hound reached for her as she wobbled, and then grabbed her arm before she fell. It all hit her at once, everything she'd tried so hard to deny. "They're all gone," she whispered breathlessly. "_Everything_ is gone. My home, my family." Sandor took her other arm to steady her. She looked up at him, feeling wildly alone. "And now _you_ want to leave me too!" For whatever reason, it was _that _above all else which broke her. She fell into him, burying her face against his chest.

After a few moments he drew her into a stiff embrace. Sansa's whole body shook with sobs. He held her like that for a long time, letting her cry until she was empty, and then for a while longer after that. "I won't leave you," he grumbled finally, letting his arms fall as he turned away from her.

They continued on. Riding double now felt different somehow. Sansa studied the Hound's hands through dry bloated eyes. _Such strong hands._ She wanted to touch them, to entwine her fingers with his. When she carefully grazed his knuckles with her fingertips, he flinched and jerked his hand away. "Don't," he mumbled stiffly. Silence filled the rest of their day, like usual.

It was nightfall when they dismounted again. A clear night sky shone bright above them, the starlight flickering down onto the sprawling hills all around. After tending to his horse, Sandor settled down on the grass and stayed quiet. When it came time for sleep and Sansa curled up next to him, he made no move to wrap his arm around her the way he always did these days. He just lay there, as stiff and stolid as the ground beneath them.

Sansa wished he would hold her. Then she would fall asleep quickly, where hopefully she would dream of a different place. _I'll fly far away from this world._ All she wanted to do was sleep, now and forever. "I'm cold," she said after a while.

Beside her Sandor shifted. "Here," he grunted, pushing some furs towards her. Then he lay down on his back again, clasping his hands behind his head and staring up into the sky.

Sighing, Sansa pulled the furs over her and then glanced up at the stars shining in a thick swirl of soft light. The sight was so unexpectedly stunning it nearly took her breath away. For the first time in far too long she allowed herself to appreciate beauty. She wondered if her mother was up there somewhere, and her father and brothers as well. _Are they watching over me?_ she wondered._ Do they see how he saved me?_ Sansa looked over at the Hound then. "Aren't you cold?" she asked.

"No."

She sighed and turned her attention back up to the sky, hating the way he ignored her. _I'm like a ghost, _she thought sadly. _Maybe he doesn't care about me after all. _"Do you remember when we were travelling with the Brotherhood?" she asked. "When they were taking us to their hideout."

He grumbled.

Sansa chewed her lip for a moment. _Such a bad habit,_ she briefly chastised herself, thinking of how often Septa Mordane had scolded Arya for doing the very same thing. _What does it matter now?_ She chewed her lip some more. "Why did you ignore me?"

He scoffed. "I didn't ignore you."

"You did… you _always_ do. You make me feel so alone."

He said nothing.

The scar on her hand was now a raised lump of hardened skin, and Sansa stroked it absently. "Every night when they took off your hood, I looked at you, but you wouldn't even so much as _glance_ my way. Why?"

"I looked plenty." He paused and then grumbled to himself. "At first. Then I stopped. You're right."

"But _why_?"

When he looked at her, a flicker of annoyance flashed across his face. "Because for once I didn't care to know the truth. Mouths lie, little bird. Eyes don't." His gaze turned back up to the sky and he grimaced.

"What truth?"

"The truth that's been in your eyes since the moment I opened that brewhouse door."

"I was _frightened_." Sansa stared at his angry face. It was obvious that such an explanation meant nothing to him. How badly she wished all the rage would leave him. She despised the ugly hatred that always pierced his cold grey eyes.

"Frightened." He snorted derisively. "And what about now, little bird? Still scared?"

"Of you? No. Of course not."

He laughed, a rough and rasping sound that was as harsh as rusty steel grinding against stone.

"You won't believe me," she said, "but when I was with the Brotherhood, I thought about you, you know."

"Did you?" He chuckled bitterly and then turned his face towards hers again. "And just what was it you thought about, little bird?"

"I thought about our kiss."

Sandor's burned mouth twitched. His eyes narrowed, now fixed on hers. He listened.

She stared back at him. "You killed Beardless Dick, and Gendry, too. How did you think I would react?" His face hardened and his steady gaze nearly faltered. _He regrets it,_ she realised then. The remorse was there in his eyes, painful and obvious. _Eyes don't lie. _"But I thought about something else as well. How you were right. That life is no song."

He said nothing, seemingly intent on listening.

The moon's soft glow made the scars on his face look deep and black. For almost his whole life he'd been forced to exhibit the stain of another man's cruelty, and yet it was unto _him _the world cast its harsh judgment. _It's no wonder he's so angry. _"Boys die all the time," she said. "And girls, too. Innocent men and women, they die for nothing." Sansa paused and tried to control the quiver that was now sticking in her throat. "My mother and father and brothers are all dead. Probably Arya, too. My family is gone, and for what? All along you told me the truth about people, but I refused to believe it. That's no longer so. I may not like it, but I do understand."

He watched her carefully. "Bad way to learn a lesson," he rasped softly.

"Yes," Sansa agreed. _Nothing about it is fair. _A surge of rage bubbled inside her heart for a quick moment, and she had to force it back down. "I don't want to live my life in anger," she whispered, perhaps more to herself than to him.

The burned corner of his mouth twitched, and she remembered the way those lips had felt against her own. _There was nothing ugly about his kiss._ It was shameful the way she'd let him believe otherwise. He watched her, waiting for her to continue.

Sansa stared at the face that had once frightened her so. "There's goodness in people," she said. "In spite of everything, I still believe that."

"Not all people."

She thought about that for a moment. "Maybe. But it's there in most. Sometimes it may be hard to see, but if you truly want to find it, you need only look." He frowned at that. "I already know what you would say. You think I'm just a stupid little bird."

Sandor watched her closely. His eyes hadn't left hers, and they now looked strangely soft. "No. I don't think that."

"Well, you've told me often enough you think I am. And you don't lie, remember?"

For a quick second his gaze wavered. His mouth went taut with a remorseful grimace. "I only ever said that in anger."

"Yes," she said, nodding slightly. "You say a lot when you're angry. Even more when you're drunk. Hurtful things." She looked away from him, back up into the sky.

The Hound stayed quiet for quite some time after that. They both did. She could feel his eyes on her face, but she didn't look his way. Every now and again a star would streak across the sky, and Sansa wished upon every single one. _I wish for all this to end,_ she thought futilely, and then soon another star would race overhead. She wished once more for the Hound's rage to be gentled. A lot of time passed before another star shot across the sky, and it was very low, leaving a long tail of sparkling white light in its wake. Her breath caught at the sight, and she shut her eyes to make a third wish.

Next to her the Hound shifted. His calloused fingertips lightly brushed across her cheek, almost intangibly. "Open your eyes," he whispered. She did, only to find his burned face close to hers. A thrill of excitement suddenly stirred inside her stomach.

But he didn't kiss her. Instead a thousand questions had ignited in his eyes. Sansa swallowed past the hard lump in her throat, knowing she was responsible for the terrible hurt she saw there. With a shaking hand, she carefully cupped his face, and beneath her palm she felt the hint of exposed bone on his jaw. His eyes flickered slowly between hers, searching for a thousand answers. _I'll give him every last one,_ she thought.

Running her fingers through his hair, she leaned in and lightly kissed the marred corner of his mouth. He inhaled sharply through flared nostrils. Sansa then moved her lips to his burned cheek and tenderly kissed the scars that were there. For a moment he stiffened, but then as she continued kissing her way along the scars she'd once considered the most terrible thing in the world, his eyes slipped shut and a sigh softer than silence escaped him. Making her way up to his brow and then his temple, she carried on kissing his ruined face. Finally she pushed his hair aside to place a gentle kiss on the mangled mass of tissue that was once his ear.

"Sansa," he exhaled. And then, watching her through heavy-lidded eyes, he slowly leaned towards her.

The first few kisses were gentle, almost hesitant. Each time their lips parted slightly, his warm breath would quiver against her mouth in a soft, tickling caress. He soon pulled her closer and held onto her like he never meant to let go. The chasm of emptiness inside of her slowly began to fill up. Her lips, her cheeks, her neck; he kissed her everywhere, right down to her soul.

Later, after Sandor had drifted off to sleep, Sansa lay awake in his arms. When an owl hooted nearby, she had no desire to fly off into the dark of night. Far away in the distance, wolves howled to each other. She nestled in closer to the warm body beside her and closed her eyes. For the first time since leaving King's Landing, she was exactly where she wanted to be.


End file.
